uv 


UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


PRAIRIE  SONGS 


BEING  CHANTS  RHYMED  AND 
UNRHYMED  OF  THE  LEVEL 
LANDS  OF  THE  GREAT  WEST 
BY  HAMLIN  GARLAND  WITH 
DRAWINGS  BY  H.  T.  CARPENTER 


CAMBRIDGE  AND  CHICAGO 

PUBLISHED   BY   STONE   AND 

KIMBALL    IN    THE     YEAR 

MDCCCXCIII 


COPYRIGHTED  1893   BY  HAMLIN  GARLAND 
THIS   IS  OF  THE  FIRST   EDITION 


TO   MY   BROTHER   FRANKLIN 
IN      MEMORY     OF    THE     PRAIRIES 
OVER  WHICH  WE  RODE  TOGETHER 


OST  modern  men,  I  fancy,  find 
it  rather  difficult  to  take  verse 
(not  poetry)  seriously.  It  is  so  restrictive  and  so 
monotonous  in  comparison  with  the  flexibility  of 
prose,  that  it  forever  hampers  and  binds  in  the 
man's  larger  feeling  Prose  seems  to  be  drawing  off 
all  that  is  most  modern  and  freest  and  most  char- 
acteristic of  our  American  civilization.  I  do  not 
expect,  therefore,  to  have  these  verses  taken  to 
represent  my  larger  work. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  the  prairies  of  North- 
ern Iowa  were  only  just  won  from  the  elk  and 
buffalo,  whose  bones  and  antlers  lay  in  thousands 
beside  every  trail  and  watering  place.  These  rich 
and  splendid  meadows  had  swarmed  with  herbivora 
for  ages  of  undisturbed  possession,  and  every 
crumbling  crib  of  bones  or  bleaching  antler  was  a 
powerful  incentive  to  a  boy's  imagination.  From 
them  my  mind  was  able  to  construct  some  idea  of 
the  grandeur  of  the  flocks  which  once  peopled  these 


green  vistas.  Even  then  I  felt  the  beauty  of  the 
wilderness,  which  is  coming  to  have  deeper  charm 
as  it  passes  irrecoverably  from  sight. 

The  prairies  are  not  the  plains.  The  plains  do 
not  begin  until  you  reach  the  Missouri  river  and  be- 
gin to  climb  toward  the  Rocky  Mountains.  These 
verses  have  to  do  with  both  plains  and  prairies, 
though  the  wild  prairies  are  nearly  gone.  The  vege- 
tation differs  wildly,  as  will  be  evident  from  allu- 
sions throughout  this  volume.  The  plains  are 
mainly  clothed  in  a  short  hair-like  grass  which 
cures  early  in  the  stock  and  is  russet  in  color  dur- 
ing most  of  the  year. 

The  prairies  were  rich  in  grasses.  Blue-joint, 
crows-foot  and  wild  oats.  Sunflowers  and  innum- 
erable and  brilliant  flowers  grew  in  the  beautiful 
meadows,  out  of  which  groves  of  popple  and  hazel 
bushes  rose  like  islands  out  of  shallow  seas. 

These  prairies  were  intersected  by  beautiful 
streams,  belted  in  splendid  groves  of  oaks  and 
maples  and  basswood  trees.  The  prairies  were  gen- 
erally level,  with  long  swells  like  a  quiet  sea,  but  in 
the  neighborhood  of  streams  they  grew  more 
varied  and  wooded. 

Over  such  prairie  grasses,  around  such  tow-heads 
of  popple  trees,  my  brother  and  I  rode,  racing  with 
half -wild  horses,  chasing  the  wild  fox  and  the  prairie 
wolf,  spying  out  the  Massasauga  in  the  grass,  and 
munching  hazel  nuts  in  lee  of  hazel  thickets  on  cold 
November  days.  Those  were  glorious  days  ! 

I  have  lived  many  phases  of  life,  but  those  few 


years  among  the  colts  and  cattle  of  the  prairies,  be- 
fore settlement  closed  the  cows'  wild  pasture  and 
stabled  the  horses,  are  among  my  happiest  recollec- 
tions. 

The  prairies  are  gone.  I  held  one  of  the  ripping, 
snarling,  breaking  plows  that  rolled  the  hazel  bushes 
and  the  wild  sunflowers  under.  I  saw  the  wild 
steers  come  into  pasture  and  the  wild  colts  come 
under  harness.  I  saw  the  wild  fowl  scatter  and  turn 
aside;  I  saw  the  black  sod  burst  into  gold  and 
lavender  harvests  of  wheat  and  corn — and  so  there 
comes  into  my  reminiscences  an  unmistakable  note 
of  sadness.  I  do  not  excuse  it  or  conceal  it.  I  set 
it  down  as  it  comes  to  me.  I  have  designedly  ex- 
cluded all  things  alien  to  the  book  and  its  title.  I 
make  no  further  claim  than  this; — it  is  composed  of 
prairie  songs.  HAMLIN  GARLAND. 


A  TABLE  OF  THE  CONTENTS  OF  THIS 
BOOK. 

FOREWORD 

PRAIRIE  MEMORIES      17 

THE   WEST  WIND      19 

COMING  RAIN  ON  THE  PRAIRIE     21 

MASSASAUGA — THE  MEADOW  RATTLESNAKE     22 

SPRING  ON  THE  PRAIRIE     23 

A  SONG  OF  WINDS     24 

INDIAN  SUMMER     25 

COLOR  IN  THE  WHEAT     26 

THE   MEADOW   LARK     27 

THE  HUSH  OF  THE  PLAINS     28 

PIONEERS     29 

SETTLERS — PORTRAIT      30 

LINES     31 
PRAIRIE   FIRES      32 
DROUGHT     33 
AT  DUSK     35 
A  WINTER  BROOK     36 
THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINES     37 
CORN  SHADOWS     39 
THE  HERALD  CRANE     41 
SUNDOWN     43 
IN  THE  AUTUMN  GRASS     44 


DREAMS  OF  THE  GRASS     45 

MEADOW  MEMORIES     46 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL'S   HOUR     47 

A  SUMMER  MOOD     48 

ATAVISM     49 

IN   A   LULL   IN   THE   SPLENDORS   OF   BRAHMS      5l 

THE  PASSING   OF  THE   BUFFALO      53 

AN  APOLOGY     57 

ILLUSTRATION      58 
HOME  FROM  THE  CITY     59 
APRIL  DAYS     60 
BY  THE  RIVER     6l 

ILLUSTRATION     62 
A   MOUNTAIN-SIDE     64 
IN  AUGUST     65 
THE   BLUE   JAY      66 
THE  MOUNTAINS      67 
MY   CABIN      70 
BENEATH  THE   PINES      71 
THE   STRIPED  GOPHER      73 
THE   PRAIRIE  TO   THE  CITY      74 
A   HUMAN   HABITATION      75 
A  RIVER  GORGE      77 
ALTRUISM      78 
RETURN   OF   THE   GULLS      79 
EARLY  MAY      81 


THE  WIND'S  VOICE     82 
ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI     83 
A  BROTHER'S   DEATH  SEARCH     84 
SPRING  RAINS     86 
A  DAKOTA  HARVEST  FIELD     87 
THE  NOONDAY  PLAIN     89 
MIDNIGHT  SNOWS     91 
IN   STACKING-TIME     93 
PRAIRIE  CHICKENS     95 
A  TOWN  OF  THE  PLAIN     97 
IN  THE  GOLD  COUNTRY     98 
HOME  FROM  WILD  MEADOWS     99 
FIGHTING  FIRE      101 
BOYISH  SLEEP      102 
THE   HERDSMAN      103 
RUSHING  EAGLE     105 
SEPTEMBER      107 
THE  STAMPEDE     109 
SPORT     110 

THE  COOL  GRAY  JUG      111 
THE  GRAY  WOLF     113 
PLOWING      US 
A  TRIBUTE  OF  GRASSES      116 
MOODS  OF  THE  PLAIN      117 
LOST  IN  A  NORTHER     119 
ILLUSTRATION      124 


LADRONE      125 

ILLUSTRATION      130 
ACROSS   THE  PICKET  LINE      131 
THEN  IT'S  SPRING      133 
LOGAN   AT   PEACH   TREE   CREEK      134 
PAID  HIS  WAY     136 
HORSES  CHAWIN'  HAY      139 
GROWING  OLD     142 
A  FARMER'S  WIFE     145 
POM,  POM,   PULL-AWAY      147 
COIN'  BACK  T'MORRER     149 
ON  WING  OF  STEAM     153 
MY  PRAIRIES      155 
MIDWAY  ON  THE  TRAIL      157 


I  WIDE  cloud-peopled  summer-sky; 
Sea-drifting  grasses,  rustling  reeds, 
Where  young  grouse  to  their  mothers 

cry, 

And  locusts  pipe  from  whistling  weeds; 
Broad  meadows  lying  like  lagoons 
Of  sunniest  waters,  on  whose  swells 
Float  nodding  blooms  to  tinkling  bells 
Of  bob-o'-linkum's  wildest  tunes; 

Far  west-winds  bringing  odors,  fresh 
From  mountains  clothed  as  monarchs  are 
In  royal  robes  of  ice  and  snow, 
Where  storms  are  bred  in  thunder-jar; 
Land  of  corn,  and  wheat,  and  kine, 
Where  plenty  fills  the  hand  of  him 
Who  tills  the  soil  or  prunes  the  vine 
Or  digs  in  thy  far  canons  dim — 

My  Western  land,  1  love  thee  yet! 
In  dreams  I  ride  my  horse  again 
And  breast  the  breezes  blowing  fleet 
From  out  the  meadows  cool  and  wet. 


18     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

From  fields  of  flowers  blowing  sweet, 
And  flinging  perfume  to  the  breeze. 
The  wild  oats  swirl  along  the  plain; 
I  feel  their  dash  against  my  knees, 
Like  rapid  plash  of  running  seas. 

I  pass  by  islands,  dark  and  tall, 

Of  slender  poplars  thick  with  leaves; 

The  grass  in  rustling  ripple,  cleaves 

To  left  and  right  in  emerald  flow; 

And  as  I  listen,  riding  slow, 

Out  breaks  the  wild  bird's  jocund  call. 

Oh,  shining  suns  of  boyhood's  time  ! 

Oh,  winds  that  from  the  mythic  west 

Sang  calls  to  Eldorado's  quest ! 

Oh,  swaying  wild  bird's  thrilling  chime  ! 

When  the  loud  city's  clanging  roar 

Wraps  in  my  soul  as  if  in  shrouds 

I  hear  those  sounds  and  songs  once  more, 

And  dream  of  boyhood's  wind-swept  clouds 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     19 

THE  WEST  WIND. 

Ohl  the  wind  is  abroad  in  the  hollows 
And  a-sweep  on  the  swells  of  the  plain, 
Where  the  dun  grass  tosses  and  wallows, 
And  the  hazel  bush  shakes  as  in  pain — 

With  a  petulant  air  and  a  shiver 

Of  fright  and  of  pain — 
While  the  broad  breeze  streams  like  a  river 
And  roars  like  a  far-off  main. 

The  wide  waves,  restless,  but  weary, 
Roll  on  to  the  half-hid  sun. 
Hear  the  rush! 
Hear  the  roar! 

Hear  the  murmurl 
See  the  swift  waves  serially  run, 
Like  fowls  from  the  eagle's  swift  wings! 
To  the  bowed  ear's  hearing,  there  comes 
The  sound  of  far  harping  of  harp  strings, 
The  noise  of  dim  pipings  and  drums. 

Oh!  magic  west  wind  of  the  prairiel 

How  he  leaps  in  his  might! 
No  boundaries  knows  he  or  cares  he, 

No  day  and  no  night. 
His  footsteps  grow  weary  never, 

He  is  here! 

He  is  there! 

Now  he  harries  the  clouds  in  the  air, 
Now  he  tramples  the  grass  in  his  flight. 


20     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

But  whether  in  spring  or  in  summer, 
Or  in  autumn's  gray  shadow  or  shine, 
Chainless  and  care-free  is  he 
As  a  faun  in  a  riot  of  wine. 
He  is  lord  of  the  whole  sky's  hollow; 
He  possesses  the  whole  vast  plain; 
He  leads  and  the  wild  clouds  follow — 
He  frowns  and  they  vanish  in  rain! 


f-K 


COMING  RAIN 

"ONTHE  PRAIRIE 


SOUNDING  southern  breeze 
The  spire-like  poplar  trees 

Stream  like  vast  plumes 
Against  a  seamless  cloud — a  high 
Dark  mass,  a  dusty  dome  that  looms 
A  rushing  shadow  on  the  western  sky. 

The  lightning  falls  in  streams, 
Sprangling  in  fiery  seams, 

Through  which  the  bursting  rain 
Falls  in  trailing  clouds  of  gray; 
The  cattle  draw  together  on  the  plain, 
And  drift  like  anchored  boats  upon  a  wind-swept 
bay. 


21 


22     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

MASSASAUGA— THE  MEADOW  RATTLESNAKE. 

A  cold  coiled  line  of  mottled  lead, 
He  lies  where  grazing  cattle  tread 
And  lifts  a  fanged  and  spiteful  head. 

His  touch  is  deadly,  and  his  eyes 
Are  hot  with  hatred  and  surprise — 
Death  waits  and  watches  where  he  lies! 

His  hate  is  turned  toward  everything! 

He  is  the  undisputed  king 

Of  every  path  and  woodland  spring. 

His  naked  fang  is  raised  to  smite 
All  passing  things;  light 
Is  not  swifter  than  his  bite. 

His  touch  is  deadly,  and  his  eyes 
Are  hot  with  hatred  and  surprise — 
Death  waits  and  watches  where  he  lies! 


SftOKG 


ND  the  fields  grew  green 

With  the  mighty  mystery 
Of  springing  grain; 

The  poplar  trees  burst  into  yellow  leaf, 
The  oak  leaves  pricked  like  a  squirrel's  ear, 
And  in  the  mellow  grounds  the  planter  strode; 
The  birds  paired  off  and  nested, 
The  horses  fed  on  the  sunny  slopes 
Where  the  crocus  bloomed  and  the  early  grasses 
Yielded  their  sweets  to  the  cattle's  lips; 
And  like  some  peerless  overture,  the  vast 
Sweet  symphony  the  wild  chickens  sang  at  dawn 
Died  away  to  a  single  note, 
And  genial  spring  was  merged  in  sultry  summer. 


23 


24     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

A  SONG  OF  WINDS. 

Winds  from  the  prairies  where  wild  weeds  shiver; 
Winds  from  the  popple  trees'  quick  leaves'  quiver, 
Where  the  blithe  chickens  boom  and  shrill  frogs 
chime — 

0  winds  from  my  boyhood's  far-away  time, 

1  wait  for  you,  long  for  you,  here  in  the  town! 

Filled  with  the  memory  of  grasses  and  trees, 
I  long  for  my  prairies  as  a  sailor  loves  seas; 
I  hear  in  red  mornings  the  wild  chickens  calling, 
I  hear  at  still  nooning  the  bugle  note  falling 
From  crane  sweeping  by  in  the  fathomless  sky. 

I  long,  oh!  I  long  to  lie  in  the  stubble, 
Close  by  the  creek,  where  the  cool  waters  bubble; 
Longing  to  lose  in  a  dream  all  my  care, 
Feeling  the  summer  winds  kissing  my  hair, 
Hearing  the  willows  shake  over  my  head! 


SUMMER 


IT  LAST  there  came 

The  sudden  fall  of  frost, 

when  Time 
Dreaming  through  russet  September  days 
Suddenly  awoke,  and  lifting  his  head,  strode 
Swiftly  forward — made  one  vast  desolating  sweep 
Of  his  scythe,  then,  rapt  with  the  glory 
That  burned  under  his  feet,  fell  dreaming  again. 
And  the  clouds  soared  and  the  crickets  sang 
In  the  brief  heat  of  noon;  the  corn, 
So  green,  grew  sere  and  dry — 
And  in  the  mist  the  ploughman's  team 
Moved  silently,  as  if  in  dream — 
And  it  was  Indian  summer  on  the  plain. 


26     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

COLOR  IN  THE  WHEAT. 

Like  liquid  gold  the  wheat  field  lies, 

A  marvel  of  yellow  and  green, 

That  ripples  and  runs,  that  floats  and  flies, 

With  the  subtle  shadows,  the  change — the  sheen 

That  plays  in  the  golden  hair  of  a  girl. 
A  cloud  flies  there — 
A  ripple  of  amber — a  flare 
Of  light  follows  after.    A  swirl 

In  the  hollows  like  the  twinkling  feet 

Of  a  fairy  waltzer,  the  colors  run 
To  the  western  sun, 

Through  the  deeps  of  the  ripening  wheat. 

I  hear  the  reapers'  far-off  hum, 

So  faint  and  far,  it  seems  the  drone 

Of  bee  or  beetle ;  seems  to  come 

From  far-off,  fragrant,  fruity  zone, 
A  land  of  plenty,  where, 
Toward  the  sun,  as  hasting  there, 
The  colors  run  before  the  wind's  feet 
In  the  wheat. 

The  wild  hawk  swoops 
To  his  prey  in  the  deeps; 
The  sun-flower  droops 
To  the  lazy  wave;  the  wind  sleeps — 

Then  running  in  dazzling  links  and  loops 
A  marvel  of  shadow  and  shine, 

A  glory  of  olive  and  amber  and  wine 
Runs  the  color  in  the  wheat. 


THE 
NEADOV  LARK 


BRAVE  little  bird  that  fears 

not  God, 
A  voice  that  breaks  from  the 

snow-wet  clod 
With  prophecy  of  sunny  sod, 
Set  thick  with  wind-waved  golden-rod. 

From  the  first  bare  clod  in  the  raw  cold  spring, 
From  the  last  bare  clod,  when  fall  winds  sting, 
The  farm-boy  hears  his  brave  song  ring, 
And  work  for  the  time  is  a  pleasant  thing. 


28     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

THE  HUSH  OF  THE  PLAINS— JULY. 

As  some  vast  orchestra,  listening,  waits 

Full-breathed  and  tense  in  a  sudden  lull, 

With  only  the  string-bass  throbbing  on, 

Ready  at  fall  of  the  leader's  wand 

To  break  into  soft,  slow  swell, 

So  the  plain  lies,  hushed  and  dumb  as  death, 

Songless  and  soundless. 

No  crickets  fill  the  pause  with  whirr, 

No  bird  wakes  a  note  or  stirs  a  wing. 

Only  the  flute-like  note  of  the  lark  sounds, 

Only  the  flashing,  inaudible  wing  of  the  gull  moves, 

All  else  waits,  listens. 

Only  the  wide  wind  droning  on, 

Wide  as  the  plain,  vaguely  vast, 

The  string-bass  throbbing  dimly  on. 


PIONEERS 


HEY  rise  to  mastery  of 

wind  and  snow; 
They  go  like  soldiers  grimly 

into  strife 

To  colonize  the  plain.    They  plow  and  sow, 
And  fertilize  the  sod  with  their  own  life, 
As  did  the  Indian  and  the  buffalo. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     31 

SETTLERS. 

Above  them  soars  a  dazzling  sky, 

In  winter  blue  and  clear  as  steel, 
In  summer  like  an  arctic  sea, 

Wherein  great  icebergs  drift  and  reel 
And  melt  like  sudden  sorcery; 

Beneath  them  plains  stretch  far  and  fair, 
Rich  with  sunlight  and  with  rain; 

Vast  harvests  ripen  with  their  care 
And  fill  with  overplus  of  grain 
Their  square  great  bins; 

Yet  still  they  strive  !    I  see  them  rise 
At  dawn-light  going  forth  to  toil; 

The  same  salt  sweat  has  filled  my  eyes; 

My  feet  have  trod  the  self-same  soil 

Behind  the  snarling  share. 


PRAIRIE  FIRES. 

A  curving,  leaping  line  of  light, 

A  crackling  roar  from  lurid  lungs, 

A  wild  flush  on  the  skies  of  night— 

A  force  that  gnaws  with  hot  red  tongues, 

That  leaves  a  blackened  smoking  sod — 

A  fiery  furnace  where  the  cattle  trod. 


WIDE  dun  land,  where  the  fierce 

suns  smite, 
And  the  wind  is  a  furnace 

breath, 

Where  the  beautiful  sky  has  a  sinister  light, 
And  the  earth  lies  dread  and  dry  as  death; 
Where  the  sod  lies  scorching  and  wan  grass  sighs, 
And  the  hot  red  morning  has  no  birds — 
O  songless  sunset  land!     I  close  mine  eyes 
In  sheer  despair  of  thy  dim  reach — 
O  level  waste!  so  lone  thou  art,  no  words 
Can  tell,  no  pictures  teach. 

A  presence  like  a  curse!  no  insects  hum — 

No  chirping  crickets'  cheery  ring — 

A  white  mist-wall  of  bounding  space 

Flecked  with  the  swift  gull's  fluttering, 

Alone  confronts  the  asking  face! 

No  tree  stands  green  against  the  sky — 

The  hawk  swims  in  the  blazing  air, 

He  scarce  can  find  (though  keen  his  eye) 

A  human  heart  beat  anywhere. 

33 


34      PRAIRIE   SONGS 

So  hot  and  lone  the  plain — 0  God! 
The  very  breezes  faint  and  die 
Along  the  burning  hopeless  sod 
Where  sere  grass  rustles  sullenly. 
All  creatures  turn  an  asking  eye 
To  where  the  radiant  heavens  soar 
In  cloudless  splendor — a  cry 
Bursts  from  the  bitten  lip — deathwise 
The  desperate  husbandmen,  with  hands 
Outspread,  clutch  at  the  dust. 
Their  harvest  withers  where  it  stands 
And  burns  to  ashes  while  they  trust! 


hT  DUSK 


NDOLENT  I  lie 

Beneath  the  sky 
Thick-sown  with  clouds  that  soar  and  float 

Like  stately  swans  upon  the  air, 
And  in  the  hush  of  dusk  I  hear 
The  ring-dove's  plaintive  liquid  note 
Sound  faintly  as  a  prayer. 

Against  the  yellow  sky 
The  grazing  kine  stalk  slowly  by; 
Like  wings  that  spread  and  float  and  flee 
The  clouds  are  drifting  over  me. 

The  couching  cattle  sigh, 
And  from  the  meadow  damp  and  dark 
I  hear  the  piping  of  the  lark; 
While  falling  night-hawks  scream  and  boom, 
Like  rockets,  through  the  rising  gloom, 
And  katydids  with  pauseless  chime 
Bear  on  the  far  frogs'  ringing  rhyme. 


36     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

A  WINTER  BROOK. 

How  sweetly  you  sang  as  you  circled 

The  elm's  rugged  knees  in  the  sod, 
I  know!  for  deep  in  the  shade  of  your  willows, 

A  barefooted  boy  with  a  rod, 
1  Jay  in  the  drowsy  June  weather, 

And  sleepily  whistled  in  tune 
To  the  laughter  1  heard  in  your  shallows, 

Involved  with  the  music  of  June  ! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     37 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINES. 

Wailing,  wailing, 
O  ceaseless  wail  of  the  pines. 

Sighing,  sighing, 
An  incommunicable  grief! 

No  matter  how  bright  the  summer  sky, 
No  matter  how  the  dandelions  star  the  sod, 
Nor  how  the  bees  buzz  in  the  cherry  blooms, 
Nor  how  the  rich  green  grass  is  thick  with  daisies, 
While  the  sun  moves  through  the  dazzling  sky, 
And  the  up-rolled  clouds  sail  slowly  on, 
The  nun-voiced  pines,  sombre  and  strong, 
Breathe  on  their  endless  moaning  song. 

The  birds  do  not  dwell  there  or  sing  there  ! 
They  fly  to  trees  with  fruit  and  shining  leaves, 
Where  twigs  swing  gayly  and  boughs  are  in  bloom — 
Among  these  glooms  they  would  surely  die, 
And  their  young  forget  to  swing  and  sway. 
The  wild  hawk  may  sit  here  and  scream; 
The  gray-coated  owl  utter  his  hoarse  note; 
And  the  dark  ravens  perch  and  peer, 
But  the  robins,  the  orioles,  the  bright  singers 
Flee  these  sighing  pines. 

Sighing,  sighing! 
0  vast  illimitable  voice ! 

Like  the  moan  of  multitudes,  the  chant  of  nuns, 
Thy  ceaseless  wail  and  cry  comes  on  me. 


38     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

And  when  the  autumn  sky  is  dull  and  wild, 
When  jagged  clouds  stream  swiftly  by, 
When  the  sleet  falls  in  slant  torrents, 
When  thy  dripping  arms,  outspread,  are  drear 
And  harsh  with  cold  and  rain, 
Then  thy  voice,  O  pines,  is  stern  and  wild; 
Thy  sigh  becomes  a  vengeful  moan  and  snarl — 
A  voice  of  stormy,  inexpressible  anguish 
Timed  to  the  sweep  of  thy  tossing  boughs, 
Keyed  to  the  desolate  gray  of  the  ragged  sky. 

Wailing,  wailing  ! 

O  vast  illimitable  wail  of  the  pines  ! 
The  chill  wash  of  swift  dark  streams, 
The  joyless  days,  the  lonely  nights, 
Hungry  noons,  funeral  trains,   with  trappings  of 

sable, — 

The  burial  chants  with  clods  falling  in  the  grave — 
All  the  measureless  and  eternal  inheritance  of  grief 
All  the  ineffable  woe  which  has  oppressed  my  race 
All  the  tragedy  I  have  felt 
With  all  that  my  ancestors  have  felt, 
Comes  back  to  me  here, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  thine  eternal  wail, 
Blent  in  the  flow 
Of  thine  incommunicable  sorrow. 


DRN  SHADOWS 


\ 

ITH  heart  grown  weary  of 

the  heat, 

And  hungry  for  the  breath 
Of  field  and  farm,  with 

eager  feet 

I  trod  the  pavement,  dry  as  death, 
Through  city  streets  where  vice  is  born — 
And  sudden,  lo!  a  ridge  of  corn! 

Above  the  dingy  roofs  it  stood, 
A  dome  of  tossing  tangled  spears, 
Dark,  cool,  and  sweet  as  any  wood 
Its  silken  green  and  plumed  ears 
Laughed  on  me  through  the  haze  of  morn 
The  tranquil  presence  of  the  corn. 

Upon  the  salt  wind  from  the  sea 
Borne  westward  swift  as  dreams 
Of  boyhood  are,  I  seemed  to  be 
Once  more  a  part  of  sounds  and  gleams 
Thrown  on  me  by  the  winds  of  morn 
Amid  the  rustling  rows  of  corn. 

39 


40     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

I  bared  my  head,  and  on  me  fell 

The  old  wild  wizardry  again 

Of  leaf  and  sky,  the  moving  spell 

Of  boyhood's  easy  joy  or  pain, 

When  pumpkin  trump  was  Siegfried's  horn 

Echoing  down  the  walls  of  corn. 

I  saw  the  field  (as  trackless  then 

As  wood  to  Daniel  Boone) 

Wherein  we  hunted  wolves  and  men 

And  ranged  and  twanged  the  green  bassoon- 

(Not  blither  Robin  Hood's  merry  horn 

Than  pumpkin  vine  amid  the  corn!) 

In  central  deeps  the  melons  lay 
Slow  swelling  in  the  August  sun. 
I  traced  again  the  narrow  way 
And  joined  again  the  stealthy  run — 
The  jack-o'-lantern  wraith  was  born 
Within  the  shadows  of  the  corn. 

O  wide,  west  wilderness  of  leaves! 
O  playmates,  far  awayi  over  thee 
The  slow  wind  like  a  mourner  grieves 
And  stirs  the  plumed  ears  like  a  sea. 
Would  we  could  sound  again  the  horn 
In  vast  sweet  presence  of  the  corn! 


THE  HERALD 


GRANE 


H  !  say,  you  so,  bold  sailor 

In  the  sun-lit  deeps  of  sky! 
Dost  thou  so  soon  the  seed-time  tell 

In  thy  imperial  cry, 
As  circling  in  yon  shoreless  sea 
Thine  unseen  form  goes  drifting  by  ? 

I  can  not  trace  in  the  noon-day  glare 

Thy  regal  flight,  O  crane! 
From  the  leaping  might  of  the  fiery  light 

Mine  eyes  recoil  in  pain, 
But  on  mine  ear,  thine  echoing  cry 

Falls  like  a  bugle  strain. 

The  mellow  soil  glows  beneath  my  feet, 

Where  lies  the  buried  grain; 
The  warm  light  floods  the  length  and  breadth 

Of  the  vast,  dim,  shimmering  plain, 
Throbbing  with  heat  and  the  nameless  thrill 

Of  the  birth-time's  restless  pain. 


42     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

On  weary  wing,  plebeian  geese 

Push  on  their  arrowy  line 
Straight  into  the  north,  or  snowy  brant 

In  dazzling  sunshine,  gloom  and  shine; 
But  thou,  O  crane,  save  for  thy  sovereign  cry, 

At  thy  majestic  height 
On  proud,  extended  wings  sweep'st  on 

In  lonely,  easeful  flight. 

Then  cry,  thou  martial-throated  herald  ! 

Cry  to  the  sun,  and  sweep 
And  swing  along  thy  mateless,  tireless  course 

Above  the  clouds  that  sleep 
Afloat  on  lazy  air — cry  on  !    Send  down 

Thy  trumpet  note — it  seems 
The  voice  of  hope  and  dauntless  will, 

And  breaks  the  spell  of  dreams. 


SUNDOWN 


T  WAS  sundown,  and  the 

royal  river 
Dropping  southward  to  the 

sea, 

With  rippling  rush  and  serial  shiver 
Of  small  waves  in  the  reedy  sedges, 
Swept  round  its  yellow  limestone  ledges; 
And  the  far-off  pulsing  came  to  me 
Of  a  negro  boatman's  melody. 

Like  a  silvery  wind-blown  vail 
The  shimmering  mist  lay  on  the  heights, 
Struck  through  and  through  by  the  level  shafts 
Of  the  rising,  spotless  orange  moon. 
The  bittern  boomed  from  the  shadowy  marsh, 
The  curlew  piped  in  lonesome  cry, 
And  the  frogs  from  the  river  made  reply. 

The  mass  and  depth  and  mystery 
Of  the  river  deepened,  till  its  flood 
Seemed  magical.    Its  weight  of  dark 
Unresting  waters  was  so  swift,  so  broad, 
It  seemed  as  if  some  prisoned  sea 
Were  slipping  by  me  hurriedly. 

43 


44     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

IN  THE  AUTUMN  GRASS. 

Did  you  ever  lie  low 
In  the  depth  of  the  plain, 
In  the  lee  of  a  swell  that  lifts 
Like  a  low-lying  island  out  of  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  joint  shakes 

As  an  army  of  spears; 
When  each  flashing  wave  breaks 
In  turn  overhead 
And  wails  in  the  door  of  your  ears  ? 

If  you  have,  you  have  heard 

In  the  midst  of  the  roar, 
The  note  of  a  lone  gray  bird, 
Blown  slantwise  by  overhead 
As  he  swiftly  sped 

To  his  south-land  haven  once  more ! 

0  the  music  abroad  in  the  air, 
With  the  autumn  wind  sweeping 
His  hand  on  the  grass,  where 
The  tiniest  blade  is  astir,  keeping 
Voice  in  the  dim,  wide  choir, 
Of  the  infinite  song,  the  refrain, 
The  wild,  sad  wail  of  the  plain  I 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     45 
DREAMS  OF  THE  GRASS. 

0  I  to  lie  in  long  grasses  ! 

0  !  to  dream  on  the  plain  ! 
Where  the  west  wind  sings  as  it  passes, 

A  weird  and  unceasing  refrain  ! 
Where  the  rank  grass  tosses  and  wallows, 

And  the  plain's  rim  dazzles  the  eye 
Where  hardly  a  silver  cloud  bosses 

The  flashing  steel  shield  of  the  sky ! 

To  watch  the  gay  gulls  as  they  glitter 
Like  snowflakes,  and  fall  from  on  high 

To  dip  in  the  deeps  of  the  prairie; 

Where  the  crows  foot  tosses  awry, 
Like  the  swirl  o'  swift  waltzers  in  glee, 

To  the  harsh,  shrill  creak  of  the  cricket 
And  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  bee! 


46     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

MEADOW  MEMORIES. 

0  Memory,  what  conjury  is  thine! 

Once  more  the  sun  shines  on  the  wneat — 
Once  more  1  drink  the  wind  like  wine 
When  bursts  the  lark's  song  wildly-sweet 
From  out  the  rain- wet,  new-mown  grass; 

1  hear  the  sickle's  clattering  sweep, 
And  peals  of  laughter  swell  and  pass 
From  lip  to  lip;  again  1  heap 

The  odorous  wind-rows,  rank  by  rank. 
Silent  the  rancuous  tumult  of  the  street — 
From  iron  pavements  ceaseless  clank, 
From  grinding  hooves  and  jar  of  car 
I  flee,  and  lave  my  boyish  feet 
Where  bee-lodged  clover  blossoms  arel 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL'S  HOUR. 

The  cool  sweet  air, 

The  dark  fern-scented  woods, 

The  breath  of  oak  and  pine, 

The  fire-flies  in  the  grass, 

The  chirp  of  sleepy  crickets, 

The  song  of  the  thrush, 

A  lullaby  of  streams, 

The  unutterable  coolness  and  sweetness — 

The  odor  of  apple  blooms  and  grass — 

Then    from  the  fragrant  dusk  of  pines 

The  whip-poor-will  puts  forth  his  slender  cry. 

47 


48     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

A  SUMMER  MOOD. 

O,  to  be  lost  in  the  wind  and  the  sun, 

To  be  one  with  the  wind  and  the  stream! 
With  never  a  care  while  the  waters  run 

With  never  a  thought  in  my  dream. 
To  be  part  of  the  robin's  lilting  call 

And  part  of  the  bobolink's  rhyme. 
Lying  close  to  the  shy  thrush  singing  alone, 

And  lapped  in  the  cricket's  chime. 

O,  to  live  with  these  beautiful  ones  ! 

With  the  lust  and  the  glory  of  man 
Lost  in  the  circuit  of  spring-time  suns — 

Submissive  as  earth  and  part  of  her  plan — 
To  lie  as  the  snake  lies,  content  in  the  grass  ! 

To  drift  as  the  clouds  drift,  effortless,  free, 
Glad  of  the  power  that  drives  them  on 

With  never  a  question  of  wind  or  sea. 


ATAVISM 


OMETIMES,  ranging  the 

upland  sod, 
A  lean,  lone  steer  comes 

suddenly  upon 
A  trace  of  blood. — Like  a  hound  he  stops 
And  wheels,  snuffling  the  earth. 
His  eyes  roll  savagely,  his  nostrils  expand 
And  his  wrinkled  neck  stiffens.    He  paws 
The  ground  with  horny  hoofs.     He  lifts 
His  voice  in  a  wild  roar  that  ends 
In  a  harsh  scream. 

The  herd  listens,  still  as  statues — 
Every  horn  lifted,  every  nostril  spread! — 
Again  it  comes,  that  screaming  roar, 
Wild  as  the  tiger's  food-sick  cry! 
A  score  of  voices  echo  it,  and  then 
The  whole  herd  wakes  to  action. 
The  plain  swarms  with  flying  forms 
Centering  with  savage,  menacing  run 
Towards  the  bawling  sentinel. 


50     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

The  noise  becomes  frightful — 
Every  curling  tongue  joins  the  sudden  tumult — 
Lions  are  not  more  terrible  of  voice. 
The  domestic  is  lost  in  savagery. 
The  snorting,  bawling  roar  of  heavy-uddered  cows, 
Proclaims  the  power  of  memory. 
All  frantic  with  roused  memory  of  war 
And  fear  and  hate  of  man  and  wolf, 
They  rush  in  ranks  like  warriors. 
Their  tails  wave  like  pennon  lances. 

The  herdsman  dreaming  beneath  the  shine 
Of  poplar  trees,  springs  to  his  saddle 
And  sits  wondering,  while  his  horse 
With  nostrils  blown  like  trumpets, 
Fronts  the  scene,  his  eyes 
Reflecting  the  storm-like  rush 

Of  the  trampling  herd. 

The  bulls  paw  the  earth; 
Their  eyes  roll  and  flame  from  the  dust 
Their  hollow  hoofs  have  raised — 
The  herd  surges  to  and  fro  in  mass, 
Blind  and  savage,  seeking  an  unseen  cause 
Of  some  ancestral  danger. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      Si 

IN  A  LULL  IN  THE  SPLENDORS  OF  BRAHMS. 

In  a  lull  in  the  splendors  of  Brahms, 

When  the  passionate  wail  of  the  flute, 

Struck  dumb  by  the  stroke  of  the  drums, 

Like  the  voice  of  a  child  sank  mute: 

In  tbe  second  'twixt  thunder  and  thunder, 

In  the  hush  ere  the  wild  music  came 

My  soul  flew  far  to  the  plain 

Where  the  blue  sky  arched,  and  wide  land  under 

Rolled  a  sea  of  grasses  and  growing  grain. 


II. 


I  lay  in  the  reeds  of  the  prairie, 
In  the  hush  of  the  night,  and  I  heard 
The  wandering  wind,  swift  and  wary, 
Slipping  by  in  the  grass  like  a  snake. 
Faint  clouds  floated  high  in  the  air — 
A  lone  wolf  howled  on  a  swell — 
A  bird  in  the  grass  seemed  to  tremble  and  wake, 
And  sent  on  the  chime  of  the  crickets  afloat, 
A  clear  and  most  marvelous  note 
That  lay  in  the  ear  like  a  prayer. 


52     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

III. 

The  dim  moon  set! 

The  wolf  ceased  his  cry. 
Overhead  the  far  meteors  streamed  redly, 
And  dropped  down  the  dark 
Southern  dome  of  the  sky — 
The  chime  of  the  hid  cricket  stopped 
As  if  awed  by  strange  sounds  in  the  air — 
And  then,  as  1  waited  in  trance  of  desire, 
With  throbbing  shut  eyes, 

The  ear  was  aware 

Of  stir  in  the  wide  waste  of  grasses;  a  glare 
Overshot  the  gray  East  with  red  fire — 
With  swelling  vague  clamor, 

Swift  beat  and  shrill  blare 
Back  to  the  hearing  the  deep  music  came, 
As  out  of  the  darkness  a  vast  army  comes, 

Roaring  like  wind  and  wild  flame 

To  burst  in  the  thunder  of  drums! 


PASSING 
BUFFALO 


JOING  the  wild  things  of  our 
-— — -       land, 
Passing  the  antelope  and  buffalo. 
They  have  gone  with  the  sunny  sweep 

Of  the  untracked  plain! 
They  have  passed  away  with  the  untrammeled 
current  of  our  streamsl 

With  the  falling  trees  they  fell, 
With  the  autumn  grass  they  rotted, 
And  their  bones 

Lie  white  on  the  flame-charred  sod, 
Mixed  with  antlers  of  the  elk. 

For  centuries  they  lay  down  and  rose 

in  peace  and  calm  content. 
They  were  fed  by  the  rich  grass 
And  watered  by  sunny  streams. 
The  plover  called  to  them 

Out  of  the  shimmering  air, 

53 


54     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

The  hawk  swooped  above  them, 
The  blackbird  sat  on  their  backs 

In  the  still  afternoons, 
In  the  cool  mud  they  wallowed, 

Rolling  in  noisy  sport. 

They  lived  through  centuries  of  struggle — 
In  swarming  millions — till  the  white  man  came. 
The  snows  of  winter  were  terrible! 
The  dry  wind  was  hard  to  bear, 
But  the  breath  of  man,  the  smoke 
Of  his  gun  was  more  fatal. 

They  fell  by  thousands. 
They  melted  away  like  smoke! 
Mile  by  mile  they  retreated  westward; 
Year  by  year  they  moved  north  and  south 

In  dust-brown  clouds; 
Each  year  they  descended  upon  the  plains 

In  endless  floods; 
Each  winter  they  retreated  to  the  hills 

Of  the  south. 

Their  going  was  like  the  ocean  current, 
But  each  spring  they  stopped  a  little  short — 
They  were  like  an  ebbing  tide! 
They  came  at  last  to  meager  little  bands 

That  never  left  the  hills- 
Crawling  in  sombre  files  from  canon  to  canon — 

Now,  they  are  gone! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      55 

O  the  unfenced  vistas  of  sod 

They  fed  upon! 

O  the  sweet  strange  memories  they  evoke! 
The  sun-lit  prairie  with  groves  and  streams, 
The  rich  grasses,  the  undisturbed  primeval  wild — 

All  gone,  all  gonel 
Swallowed  up,  lost  irretrievably. 

My  heart  aches  with  longing  for  it. 

Gone  the  wild  turkeyl 
Gone  the  deer  and  antelopel 
Passing  the  crane  and  the  prairie  chicken! 

Passing  the  wild  free  spaces 
That  swarmed  with  feet  and  echoed  with  bawl 
Of  bulls  and  savage  snarl  of  wolves — 

Ended  the  infinite  drama  of  savage  life. 

Passing  the  seas  of  hazel-brush; 
Passing  the  prairie  sod 
And  all  its  wealth  of  grass  and  flowers, 
The  swirling  crow's  foot. 

The  tossing  plumes  of  snake  weed, 

The  golden  groves  of  sunflowers, 

Passing,  never  to  return. 

O  the  regret  of  it. 

0  the  mystery  and  power 

Of  the  untracked  land, 
The  lure  of  winds  from  unknown  spaces, 
The  wonder  and  power  of  swift  rivers, 
Where  only  the  shy  beaver  builds  a  dam — 
0  wild  woods  and  rivers  and  untrod  sweep  of  sodl 


56     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

I  exult  that  I  have  known  you! 

I  have  felt  you  and  worshiped  you  I 
I  cannot  be  robbed  of  the  memory 

Of  horse  and  plain 

And  bird  and  flower, 
Nor  the  song  of  the  illimitable  west  wind. 

They  are  all  part  of  my  life, 

And  while  1  live  they  will  endure. 
When  I  am  old  my  heart  will  thrill, 
And  I  will  say,  I  saw  the  wild  sod  burst 
To  blossom,  before  the  city's  trample 

Drowned  the  winds'  sweet  song! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      57 

AN  APOLOGY. 

The  ancient  minstrel  when  times  befit, 
And  his  song  outran  his  laggard  pen, 
Went  forth  in  the  world  and  chanted  it 
In  the  market  place,  to  the  busy  men; 
Who  found  full  leisure  to  listen  and  long 
For  the  far-off  land  of  the  minstrel's  song. 

Let  me  play  minstrel  and  sing  the  lines 
Which  rise  in  my  heart  in  praise  of  the  plain! 
I'll  lead  you  where  the  wild  oat  shines, 
And  swift  clouds  dapple  the  wheat  with  rain. 
If  you'll  listen,  you'll  hear  the  songs  of  birds 
And  the  shuddering  roar  of  trampling  herds. 

The  brave  brown  lark  from  the  russet  sod 
Will  pipe  as  clear  as  a  cunning  flute, 
Though  sky  and  sod  are  stern  as  God, 
And  the  wind  and  plain  lie  hot  and  mute — 
Though  the  gulls  complain  of  the  blazing  air 
And  the  grass  lies  brown  and  crisp  as  hair. 


58 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      59 
HOME  FROM  THE  CITY. 

Out  of  the  city,  out  of  the  street  I 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  grasses, 

Where  the  bird  and  the  daisy  wooing  meet, 

And  the  cloud  like  an  eagle  passes, 

Far  from  the  roaring  street. 

Out  of  the  hurry,  away  from  the  heat 
And  clamor  of  iron  wheels  and  hooves, 
Out  of  the  stench  and  scorching  heat 
We  come  as  a  dove  to  its  native  roofs, 
Far  from  the  thunderous  street. 

Into  the  silence  of  cool-breathed  leaves, 

Where  the  wind  like  a  lover 

Murmurs,  and  waits  to  listen,  and  weaves 

His  arms  in  the  leafy  cover — 

Back  to  a  world  of  stubble  and  sheaves 

We  flee  from  the  murderous  street! 


60     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

APRIL  DAYS. 

Days  of  witchery  subtly  sweet, 
When  every  hill  and  tree  finds  heart; 

When  winter  and  spring  like  lovers  meet 
In  the  mist  of  noon  and  part — 
In  the  April  days. 

Nights  when  the  wood-frogs  faintly  peep — 

One,  two,  and  then  are  still, 
And  the  woodpeckers'  martial  voices  sweep 

Like  bugle  blasts  from  hill  to  hill 
Through  the  breathless  morn. 

Days  when  the  soil  is  warm  with  rain, 
And  through  the  wood  the  shy  wind  steals, 

Rich  with  the  pine  and  the  poplar  smell, 
And  the  joyous  brain  like  a  dancer  reels 
Through  April  days. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     61 
BY  THE  RIVER. 

A  sun-lit  stream 

Flows  athwart  my  dream, 
With  a  gurgle  of  laughter  in  sunny  shallows, 

Where  rounded  boulders,  white  and  red, 

On  a  pebbly  bed 

Lie  wide  bespread, 
With  shoulders  and  hollows, 
Smoothed  down  and  scooped  out 
By  the  swift  water's  rout. 

It  comes  from  the  meadow, 

Where  cool  and  deep 
In  the  elm's  dark  shadow, 

In  murmur  of  dream  and  of  sleep 
It  drowsily  eddied  and  swirled, 
And  softly  crept  and  curled 
Round  the  out-thrust  knees 
Of  the  white-wood  trees, 
And  lifted  the  rustling  dripping  sedge 
In  rhythmic  sweep  at  the  outer  edge. 

There  the  graceful  water-snake  rippled  across 
Through  the  shimmering  dapple  the  leaves  cast 

down, 

While  tFle  swamp-bird,  perched  on  the  spongy  moss 
At  the  darker  side,  looked  gravely  on. 
It  was  there  the  kingfisher  swiftly  flew 
In  the  cool  sweet  silence  from  tree  to  tree — 


62 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     63 


All  silent,  save  when  the  vagabond  jay 
Flashed  swiftly  by  with  wild  tehee! — 
Swaggering  by  in  his  elfish  way. 

The  hot  dust  drifts  along  the  street 
And  fills  the  air  with  a  furnace  heat, 

Stifling  the  crowds  of  hurrying  men, 
But  in  my  dreaming  and  rippling  rhyme 
It  is  noon  in  the  sultriest  summer  time, 

And  I,  a  bare-legged  boy  again, 
Can  hear  the  low  sweet  laugh  of  the  river, 
See  on  the  water  the  dapples  a-quiver, 

Feel  on  my  knees  the  lipping-lap 
Of  the  sunny  ripples,  see  the  snake 
Slip  silently  into  the  sedgy  brake, 

And  hear  the  rising  pickerel  slap 
With  a  rushing  leap 
Where  the  lilies  sleep! 


64     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE. 

A  height  that  curved  like  a  woman's  breast, 
A  stream  that  plunged  in  mad  unrest 
Through  sullen  snow  and  gray-green  grass, 
And  fell  a  thousand  feet 

Below  the  mountain  pass. 

Its  wild  roar  mingled  with  the  moan 

Of  snarling  pines,  rooted  on  mottled  stone; 

The  gray  clouds  blurred  the  saffron  peaks  with 

snow 
Ten  thousand  feet  above  the  vale  below. 


ROM  the  great  trees  the  locusts 

cry 
In  quavering  ecstatic  duo — a 

boy 

Shouts  a  wild  call — a  mourning  dove 
In  the  blue  distance  sobs — the  wind 
Wanders  by,  heavy  with  odors 
Of  corn  and  wheat  and  melon  vines; 
The  trees  tremble  with  delirious  joy  as  the 

breeze 

Greets  them,  one  by  one — now  the  oak, 
Now  the  great  sycamore,  now  the  elm. 

And  the  locusts  in  brazen  chorus,  cry 

Like  stricken  things,  and  the  ring-dove's  note 

Sobs  on  in  the  dim  distance. 


65 


66     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

THE  BLUE  JAY. 

His  eye  is  bright  as  burnished  steel, 

His  note  a  quick  defiant  cry; 
Harsh  as  a  hinge  his  grating  squeal 

Sounds  from  the  keen  wind  sweeping  by. 

Rains  never  dim  his  smooth  blue  coat, 

The  winter  never  troubles  him. 
No  fog  puts  hoarseness  in  his  throat 

Or  makes  his  merry  eyes  grow  dim. 
His  cry  at  morning  is  a  shout. — 

His  wing  is  subject  to  his  heart. 
Of  fear  he  knows  not — doubt 

Did  not  draw  his  sailing-chart. 

He  is  an  universal  emigre; 

His  foot  is  set  in  every  land. 
He  greets  me  by  gray  Casco  bay, 

And  laughs  across  the  Texas  sand. 
In  heat  or  cold,  in  storm  or  sun 

He  lives  unfearingly,  and  when  he  dies 
He  folds  his  feet  up  one  by  one 

And  turns  a  last  look  at  the  skies. 

He  is  the  true  American!  He  fears 
No  journey  and  no  wood  or  wall, 

And  in  the  desert,  toiling  voyagers 
Take  heart  of  courage  from  his  call. 


THE  MOUNKNS 


IVER  the  mountains  face  the  plain, 
Ever  the  plainsman's  longing 

eyes 
Turn  to  the  distant  peaks. 

In  the  warm  mornings,  when  the  lark 

Whistles  from  cool,  sage-green, 'close-curling  grass, 

When  not  a  cloud  stains  the  sky — 

Then  the  mountains  stand  forth 

Warm,  sharply  outlined, 
Wearing  a  time-worn  cloak  of  purple  rock 

And  dark  green  pines. 

They  draw  near  the  plain, 
They  seem  close,  intimate,  prosaic. 
Every  hollow  and  wrinkle  is  displayed, 
Every  rasp  and  ravage  of  wind  and  frost 
Is  seen,  every  canon  seems  emptied 

Of  its  mystery  and  color. 


68     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

But  as  the  sun  swings  west, 
A  splendid  robe  of  royal  blue 

Drops  over  the  distant  peaks: 
And  lowers  and  deepens 

And  grows  richer  and  richer 
Till  the  whole  mighty  group  is  arrayed 
In  purple  splendid  distance. 

They  withdraw  into  color  and  depth 

Like  demigods ; 
They  lift  their  heads  like  those 

Who  wear  crowns ; 
They  begin  at  the  plainsman's  feet, 

They  end  in  space  where  dreams  are, 
Where  scars  become  heroic  history, 
Where  silence  reigns  in  majesty  like  death 
As  the  sun  sinks, 
The  canons  deepen  in  color, 
Adding  mystery  to  silence.    They  become  awful 

deeps 
Where  stupendous  cats  and  great  birds 

Move  about  the  strange  walls 
Carved  and  hollowed  by  water. 
Caves  yawn  wider  as  night  thickens. 

The  lone  traveler,  lying  beneath 
The  silent  pines  on  some  high  range, 
Watches  and  listens  in  ecstacy  of  fear 
And  exalted  admiration. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     69 

The  prosaic  is  gone, 

The  present  is  gone, 

The  eastern  plain  becomes  an  obscure  sea, 
Its  life  absorbed  by  distance — 
He  is  alone  with  the  stupendous,  the  inexorable, 

The  past! 

In  the  roar  of  the  far  stream 

Is  the  reminiscent  dream 

Of  colossal  cataracts; 
In  the  cry  of  the  cliff-bird,  he  hears 

The  scream  of  the  eagle 

Or  the  yawl  of  the  mountain  lion; 
In  the  fall  of  a  loose  rock 

He  fancies  he  hears  the  stealthy  tread  of  the  grizzly; 
In  the  black  night  of  the  lower  canon, 
He  thinks  he  sees  once  more 
Prodigious  lines  of  buffaloes, 
Or  files  of  Indian  armies 
Winding  downward  to  the  distant  valley 

Where  camp-fires  shine  like  stars — 

And  the  dreamer  shudders 
With  a  strange  longing  thrill, 
A  regret  for  the  vanished  past. 
He  trembles — but  to  tremble  here 
Is  not  fear — it  is  comprehension  I 


70     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

MY  CABIN. 

My  cabin  cowers  in  the  onward  sweep 

Of  the  terrible  northern  blast; 
Above  its  roof  the  wild  clouds  leap, 

And  shriek  as  they  hurry  past. 
The  snow-waves  hiss  along  the  plain, 
Like  hungry  wolves  they  stretch  and  strain. 
They  race  and  romp  with  rushing  beat; 
Like  stealthy  tread  of  myriad  feet 
They  pass  the  door.    Upon  the  roof 

The  icy  showers  swirl  and  rattle. 
At  times  the  moon,  though  far  aloof, 

Through  winds  and  snow  in  furious  battle, 
Shines  white  and  wan  within  the  room — 

Then  swift  clouds  dart  across  the  light, 

And  all  the  plain  is  lost  to  sight; 

The  cabin  rocks,  and  on  my  palm 

The  sifted  snow  falls,  cold  and  calm. 

God!  what  a  power  is  in  the  wind! 

I  lay  my  ear  to  the  cabin-side 
To  feel  the  weight  of  those  giant  hands  ; 

A  speck,  a  fly  in  the  blasting  tide 
Of  streaming,  pitiless,  icy  sands; — 

A  single  heart  with  its  feeble  beat — 
A  mouse  in  the  lion's  throat — 
A  swimmer  at  sea — a  sunbeam's  mote 

In  the  strength  of  a  tempest  of  hail  and  sleet! 


BENEATH  THE  PINES 


SUNLESS  deeps  of  northern 

pines ! 
O  broad,  snow-laden  arms 

of  fir! 


Dim  aisles  where  wolves  slip  to  and  fro, 
And  noiseless  wild  deer  swiftly  skirr! 

O  home  of  wind-songs  wild  and  grand, 
As  suits  thy  mighty  strains,  O  harp 

On  which  the  North  Wind  lays  his  hand! 
I  walk  thy  pungent  glooms  once  more 

And  shout  amid  thy  stormful  roar. 

As  in  wild  seas  a  deep  is  found, 

No  wintry  tempest  stirs,  though  high 
As  hills  the  marching  waves  upbound 

And  break  in  hissing  foam,  so  I 
Walk  here  secure;  though,  far  above, 

The  Storm-king  with  his  train  of  snows 
Sweeps  downward  from  the  bitter  north, 

And  shouts  hoarse  fury  as  he  goes. 


72     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

I  laugh  in  tones  of  ribald  glee, 

To  see  the  shaking  of  his  hair, 
And  hear  from  out  his  cloud  of  beard 

His  furious  threatenings  sweep  the  air. 
The  dark  pines  lower  their  lofty  crests — 

As  warriors  bow,  when  chieftain  grim 
Rides  by  and  shouts  his  stern  behests — 

And  with  swift  answers  echo  him. 


TRIPED 
GOPHER 


E  IS  a  roguish  little  wag! 
He  sits  like  priest,  with 

folded  hands. 

The  farm-boy  stops  behind  his  drag 
And  mocks  his  whistle  where  he  stands. 

The  crane  in  deeps  of  sunlit  sky 
Proclaims  the  Spring  with  bugle  throat, 

Not  less  the  prophecies  which  lie 
Within  the  gopher's  cheery  note. 

From  radiant  slopes  of  pink  and  green, 
From  warm  brown  fields  his  greetings  fret. 

The  eye  of  hawk  is  not  more  keen 
Than  his,  when  danger  seems  to  threat. 

He  is  a  cunning  little  wag! 

He  sits  and  jeers  with  folded  hands. 
The  farm-boy  stoops  behind  his  drag 

And  flings  a  missile  where  he  stands. 


74     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

THE  PRAIRIE  TO  THE  CITY. 

O  wind  of  the  West,  go  greet  for  me 

Those  toilers  in  the  city  deeps! 
Go  teach  them  to  be  wild  and  free 

And  chainless  as  the  eagle  keeps. 
Go  fill  their  hearts  with  hot  desire 

To  rise  above  their  sooty  task, 
Go  teach  them  to  be  wild  as  fire 

To  ask,  and  compass  that  they  ask! 


A  HUMAN  HABITATION. 

The  sky  was  like  a  low-hung  purple  disk, 
The  plain  its  counterpart.    Eastward,  between 
These  infinite  disks  of  variant  purple,  the  train 
Rushed  steadily,  entering  a  belt  of  orange-colored 

sky, 
Wherein  the  spring-time  sunlight  grew  in  power. 

Against  the  glowing  band, 
A  tooth  of  purple  plain  upreared,  to  notch 
The  otherwise  unbroken,  splendid  sweep 
Of  intersecting  sky  and  plain.    From  it 
A  thin  blue  smoke  arose. 

It  was  a  human  habitation. 
It  was  not  a  prison.    A  prison  , 

Resounds  with  songs,  yells,  the  crash  of  gates, 
The  click  of  locks  and  grind  of  chains. 
Voice  shouts  to  voice.    Bars  do  not  exclude 
The  interchange  of  words. 

This  was  solitary  confinement. 

75 


76     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

The  sun  up-sprang, 
Its  light  swept  the  plain  like  a  sea 
Of  golden  water,  and  the  blue-gray  dome 
That  soared  above  the  settler's  shack, 
Was  lighted  into  magical  splendor. 

To  some  worn  woman 

Another  monotonous  day  was  born. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     77 

A  RIVER  GORGE. 

A  savage,  ragged  throat  of  red 

And  splintered  rocks,  through  which  a  dim  stream 

flows, 

So  far  beneath,  its  foam  becomes  a  thread 
Of  melted  silver,  poured  amid  the  rose 
And  orange-tinted  lichen-spotted  walls. 

Across  this  awful  chasm,  a  jay 

Flies  dauntlessly,  with  a  ringing  cry. 

The  shuddering  soul  goes  with  him  on  his  way, 

Made  sick  with  horror,  while  the  high 

Cliffs  echo  with  his  fearless  calls. 


78     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

ALTRUISM. 

A  tale  of  toil  that's  never  done,  I  tell; 

Of  life  where  love's  a  fleeting  wing 
Across  the  toiler's  murky  hell 

Of  endless,  cheerless  journeying. 
1  draw  to  thee  the  far-off  poor 

And  lay  their  sorrows  at  thy  door. 

Thou  shalt  not  rest  while  these  my  kind 

Toil  hopelessly  in  solitude  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  leave  them  out  of  mind — 

They  must  be  reckoned  with.    The  food 

You  eat  shall  bitter  be, 
While  law  robs  them  and  feedeth  thee. 


RETURN  Or  THE  GULLS 


AR  out  upon  the  treeless  sweep 
Of  sun-smit  plain,  there  come 
And  go  great  flights  of  gulls. 
In  hot  still  noon,  in  roar  of  wind, 
In  mist  of  evening — or  ,in  cold  clear  dawn 
They  flit  in  easeful  flight  above  the  swash 
Of  uncut  wheat,  glittering  like  flakes 
Of  snow  in  flaming  sunlight. 

They  are  far  from  the  sea — 

How  came  they  here,  these  children 

Of  the  raw,  salt  winds  of  ocean? 

All  day  they  wheel  and  dip 
And  rise  again — complaining,  calling 
In  querulous  voices,  calling,  asking 
For  something  lost. 

In  keen  October  dawns 
They  move  in  myriads,  with  the  rolling  sweep 
Of  foam-lined  waves  of  water, 
Close  to  the  sod  in  search  of  food. 


80     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

At  night  they  settle  upon  the  breast 
Of  little  alkaline  lakes  and  sit  and  swing 
In  the  soft  wash  of  the  water, 
And  talk  of  things  far  off. — 
In  the  winter  they  hasten  south. 

For  ages  they  have  journeyed  thus, 
Century  by  century,  while  the  low  land  rose 
And  the  water  wasted — aeons,  and  still 
They  came  and  went.    Generations  died, 
But  the  young  preserved  the  custom. 
And  now,  though  the  land  is  hot 
And  the  sea  is  sunk  to  an  alkaline  pool, 
They  come  and  come,  because  they  bear 
Within  their  faithful  brains,  the  habits 
Of  a  thousand  thousand  years. 


ROAD  fields  of  newly-risen  wheat 
Whereon  lie  curving,  burnished 

pools 

Of  smooth  rose-golden  water. 
Across  each  pond  the  hylas  peep; 
A  warm  soil-scented  wind 
Moves  from  the  wide,  unending  spaces 

Of  the  roseate  West,  where  clouds  hang 
Like  weary  birds  on  wing. 

The  click  of  planter,  and  the  shout 

Of  driver  ringing  through  the  air 

Adds  human  presence;  while  through  the  rays 

Of  wide,  red-setting  sun  a  slow  team  moves 

A  purple  shadow  on  a  golden  ground. 


Bi 


82     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

THE  WIND'S  VOICE. 

I  woke  far  out  upon  the  Kansas  sod, 

And  in  the  car-eaves  overheard, 
Close  to  my  ear,  as  if  it  called  to  me, 

I  heard  the  sad  wind  of  the  plain. 
A  pushing  whisper,  the  voice 

Of  a  spent  runner  hoarse  with  haste, 
Burdened  with  news  of  the  vast 

Untrodden  west. 


^"^ 
£as&s£ 

iHrMississim 


!HROUGH  wild  and  tangled 

forests 

The  broad,  unhasting  river  flows — 
Spotted  with  rain-drops,  gray  with  night; 

Upon  its  curving  breast  there  goes 
A  lonely  steamboat's  larboard  light, 

A  blood-red  star  against  the  shadowy  oaks; 
Noiseless  as  a  ghost,  through  greenish  gleam 
Of  fire-flies,  before  the  boat's  wild  scream — 
A  heron  flaps  away 
Like  silence  taking  flight. 


84      PRAIRIE   SONGS 

A  BROTHER'S  DEATH-SEARCH. 

A  sadder  search  you'd  hardly  plan 
Than  a  brother  seeking  a  brother's  bones, 

Seeking  the  grave  of  a  murdered  man, 
On  the  plain  where  the  wind  like  a  mourner 
moans; 

Seeking  a  skull  that  the  wolves  have  gnawed, 

Bones  that  the  keen-eyed  fox  has  pawed! 

Alone  on  the  prairie  day  by  day, 
•  With  keen  eyes  sweeping  the  sunny  grass 
Where  the  bleaching  buffalo  skeletons  lay — 

Seeing  the  hawk's  swift  shadow  pass — 
Searching  the  gullies,  amid  the  stones 
For  a  murdered  brother's  scattered  bones. 

Alone  on  the  prairie,  night  by  night; 

In  camp  where  the  wild  wind,  spent  and  weak, 
Comes  like  a  runner  hoarse  with  fright, 

Whispering  a  tale  he  dares  not  speak — 
While  the  roan  at  his  picket  uneasily  stirring, 
Hears  over  his  head  a  swift  bird  whirring. 

Alone  on  the  prairie  by  night,  he  dreamed, 
Alone  on  the  prairie  by  day,  he  spied 

The  dead  man's  bones  (or  so  it  seemed) 
A  thousand  times  in  his  silent  ride. 

But  only  the  skeleton  buffaloes  lay 

In  countless  myriads  along  his  way. 


PRAIRIE   SONGS     85 

Whenever  the  vulture  heavily  rose 
From  a  shallow  swale  with  sudden  start, 

The  rider  stopped — God!     Who  knows, 
But  the  bird  is  fat  with  a  dead  man's  heart? — 

But  only  a  crib  of  wild  elks'  bones 

Lay  broken  and  sunken  amid  the  stones. 

A  sadder  search  you'd  hardly  plan 
Than  a  herder  seeking  a  brother's  bones, 

Seeking  a  murdered  skeleton  man 
On  the  plain  where  the  sad  wind  ever  moans — 

Seeking  the  limbs  that  the  wolves  have  gnawed — 

And  skull  that  the  keen-eyed  fox  has  pawed. 

O,  the  swift  white  clouds  tell  never  a  tale, 

And  the  wind  speaks  never  a  word! 
Though  it  comes  in  the  night  with  a  sobbing  wail, 
A  cry  of  pain  like  a  wounded  bird: 

Though  wind  and  cloud  may  daily  pass 
Over  a  skeleton  hid  in  the  grass. 


86     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

SPRING  RAINS. 

When  the  snow  is  sunk 

And  the  fields  are  bare, 

And  the  rising  sun  has  a  golden  glare 

Through  the  window  pane; 

And  the  crow  flies  over 

The  smooth  low  hills, 

And  all  the  air  with  his  calling  thrills — 

All  hearts  leap  up  in  song  again 

To  welcome  spring  and  the  spring-time  rain. 


|N  every  side 

The  golden  stubble  stretches, 
Looped  and  laced  with  silvery  spiders'  webs. 
From  stalk  to  stalk  the  snapping  insects  leaping 
Add  sparks  of  glittering  fire  to  gold  and  silver  haze. 

Their  clicking  flight  the  only  sounds  of  living 
In  all  the  deepening  solemn  hush 
Of  flooding  failing  light  through  drooping  dreamy 
grain. 

The  sweet  warm  light  grows  every  moment  richer 
Ever  more  sonorous  the  damp  and  hollow  air. 
And  now  there  comes  the  clatter  of  the  reaper 
And  loud  and  cheery  urging  of  the  tired  teams. 

Around,  unseen,  the  choir  of  evening  crickets 
Deepens  and  widens  with  the  fading  dusk, 
And  distant  calls  to  supper  reach  across  the  tangled 
grain. 

The  over-arching  majesty  of  purple  clouds  grows 

brighter 

Soaring  above  in  seas  of  green  and  blue. 
87 


88      PRAIRIE  SONGS 

A  tumbled  mountain  land  of  cloud-crags,  fired  and 

lighted 

To  glowing  bronze,  and  red  and  yellow  gold. 
And  through  the  grain  the  reaper  still  goes  forward 
And  still  the  crickets  chirp  and  insects  leap. 
And  overhead  the  glory  of  the  sunlight  turns  to 

gray. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      89 
THE  NOONDAY  PLAIN. 

The  plain  lay  under  the  cloudless  sky 
In  utter  and  terrible  silence. 
Not  a  sound,  not  a  living  soul,  not  a  voice 
Broke  from  the  russet  reach  of  sod 
Save  a  cricket  that  cried  from  the  deep 
Of  his  loneliness,  like  a  lost  soul. 

The  grass  under  foot 
Was  brittle  as  glass  and  dry  as  dust, 
It  crumbled  to  powder  under  the  heel. 
A  lark's  brave  voice  sounded  near,  once, 

And  was  silent  with  heat. 

The  light  was  enormous, 
Incredible,  world-flooding,  insatiable  as  death! 
It  was  so  fierce,  the  world  of  sod 
Grew  dim  with  over-plus  of  light — 

It  silenced  and  withered. 

The  wind  came  out  of  the  West, 
Softly,  silently,  as  if  on  tiptoe, 
And  whispered  in  passing,  as  though 

It  laid  a  finger  on  the  lip. 

The  dust  of  roads  arose 
Like  smoke  from  crevices  of  hidden  fires, 
And  sailed  across  the  land 
Like  banners.    Teams  crept  beneath 
Like  weary  wingless  beetles 

Crawling  from  cabin  to  cabin. 


90     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Awe  and  terror  rose  within 
The  waiting,  watching  soul,  a  horror 
Strange  and  wordless  made  the  heart  ache 
With  wish  to  fly.    The  silence  appalled 

And  the  light  dazzled. 


MIDNIGHT  SNOWS 


WITCHERY  of  the  winter 

night, 
With  broad  moon  shouldering 

to  the  West. 


Sometimes  in  city  streets,  at  night 

I  walk  alone  beneath  the  trees  ; 

Before  my  feet  in  rustling  flight 

The  west  wind  sweeps 

The  midnight  snows  in  untracked  heaps, 

Familiar,  desolate  and  white. 

Hearing  the  wind's  wild  rune, 
I  stand  and  wait  with  upturned  eyes, 
Awed  by  the  splendor  of  the  skies 
And  star-trained  progress  of  the  moon. 

The  city  vanishes  like  smoke — 
1  see  the  snow-clad  prairie  gleam 
Beneath  the  magic  of  the  moon, 
And  age  falls  from  me  like  a  cloak: 
91 


92     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

1  hear  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  and  the  croon 
Of  loving  voices.    Through  misty  night 
I  hear  glad  girlish  laughter  ring, 
Clear  as  some  softly  stricken  string. 
The  moon  is  setting  toward  tie  West. 
The  sleigh-bells  clash  in  homeward  flight, 
With  frost  each  horse's  breast  is  white, 
And  tbe  big  moon  sinking  at  the  West ! 

The  watch-dogs  bark  like  sentinels 
To  hear  the  passing  of  the  bells. 
"  O  moon,  you  set  to  soon,  too  soon!" 
Go  sailing  on,  go  sailing  slow, 
O  moon,  fast  sinking  at  the  West! 
The  lovers  fain  would  follow  thee 
Beyond  the  farthest  Western  sea. 
Too  fast  the  years  of  girlhood  go, 
Too  soon  come  toil  and  all  unrest — 
Across  the  diamond-dusted  snow 
We'd  ride  forever  in  your  light, 
O  sovereign  of  the  court  of  night! 
***** 

"Good-night,  Lucy!" 

"  Good-night,  Ben!  " 
Tbe  moon  is  setting  at  tbe  West ! 
"  Good-night,  my  sweetheart!  "  once  again 
The  parting  kiss,  while  comrades  wait 
Impatient  at  the  roadside  gate, 
And  tbe  red  moon  sets  beyond  tbe  West. 


STAGKINGTIME 


4f, 

"ITHIN  the  shelter  of  the  towering 

stack 

I  lie  in  shadow,  blinking  at  the  light; 
The  sun-light  floods  the  snow-rimmed  purple 

clouds. 

I  hear  the  glorious  southern  wind 
Sweep  the  sere  stubble  like  a  scythe, 
While  dropping  crickets  patter  'round  me,  shaken 

down 
In  flying  showers  from  wind-tossed  yellow  grain. 

0  first  ripe  day  of  autumn! 
O  memory  half  of  pain  and  half  of  joy! 
As  if  the  fate  of  some  dead  girl 
Haunted  my  heart,  I  dream  and  dream 
With  aching  throat,  of  dim  but  unforgotten  days. 

O  wind  and  light  and  cool  high  cloud! 

O  smell  of  corn-leaves  ripening!     It  is  so  sweet 


94     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

To  lie  here,  taskless,  dumb  and  rapt 

With  wordless  weight  of  reminiscent  scenes  and 

sounds, 

Weight  of  unremembered  millions  of  autumns — 
Filled  with  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  varied  years, 
Wonder  of  winds  and  woods  and  rivers,  and  the 

smell 

Of  ripened  yellow  grain  and  nuts,  and  the  joy 
Of  sunset  rest  from  toil  in  dim  small  fields 
In  Anglo-Saxon  days. 

And  the  shadows  wheel  and  lengthen 
Across  the  level  stubble-land,  which  glows 
A  mat  of  gold  inlaid  with  green — 

The  sun  is  sunk;  sighing  I  rise  to  go,  and  the  jocund 
call 

Of  near-by  street-boy  breaks  the  spell 

Of  cloud  and  sun  and  rustling  sheaves 

And  the  sweep  of  the  unresting  mystical  wind — 

And  overhead  I  hear  the  jar  and  throb 

Of  giant  presses,  and  the  grinding  roar 

Of  ceaseless  tumult  in  the  street  below 

Comes  back  and  welters  me  again. 


ROM  brown  plowed  hillocks 

In  early  red  morning, 
They  woke  the  tardy  sower  with  their  cheerful  cry. 
A  mellow  boom  and  whoop 
That  held  a  warning, 
A  song  that  brought  the  seed-time  very  nigh. 

The  circling,  splendid  anthem  of  their  greeting, 
Ran  like  the  morning  beating 
Of  a  hundred  mellow  drums — 

Boom,  boom,  boom! 
Each  hillock's  top  repeating 
Like  cannon  answering  cannon 

When  the  golden  sunset  comes. 

They  drum  no  more! 

Those  splendid  spring-time  pickets, 

The  sweep  of  share  and  sickle 

Has  thrust  them  from  the  hills; 
They  have  vanished  from  the  prairie 
Like  the  partridge  from  the  thickets, 
They  have  perished  from  the  sportsman, 
Who  kills,  and  kills,  and  kills! 

95 


96     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Often  now, 

When  seated  at  my  writing, 
1  lay  my  pencil  down 

And  fall  to  dreaming,  still, 
Of  the  stern,  hard  days 
Of  the  old-time  Iowa  seeding, 
When  the  prairie  chickens  woke  me 

With  their  chorus  on  the  hill. 


A  TOWN  orttr PLAIN 


SHADELESS  clump  of  yellow 

blocks, 

It  stands  upon  the  sod,  ringed 
With  level  lands  and  draped  in  mist, 
Wavering  in  air  so  dry,  it  seems 
The  very  clouds  might  burn. 

A  mighty  wind  roars  from  the  south, 
Silencing  all  other  tumult.    Its  wings 
Horizon-wide,  welters  the  grass 
And  tears  the  dust  and  stubble; 
And  yet  the  mist  remains.    Beneath 
The  wind,  flat  to  earth,  teams  crawl 
Like  beetles  seeking  shelter. 

In  the  glimmering  offing 
Ricks  of  grain  stand  like  walls 
Of  scattered  Spanish  huts,  and  like 
The  easy  magic  of  dreams 
Lakes  of  gray-blue  water,  bloom 
On  the  hot  palpitant  plain, 
So  sweet  and  fair,  the  heart 
Aches  with  longing  deep  as  grief. 

They  mock  the  eyes  a  moment 
And  are  gone — and  under  the  wind 
The  teams  crawl  on  blind  with  dust, 
And  faint  with  thirst.  07 


98     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

IN  THE  GOLD  COUNTRY 

A  gray-blue  stream  that  curves 

And  strikes  a  high  red  cliff,  lined 

With  bronze-green  pines  on  the  farther  side; 

Near  by  a  cloud  of  gray,  cold,  naked  asps — 

And  far  beyond,  green-spotted  cliffs 

Of  orange  soil,  with  glittering  mountains 

Filling  the  far  vista. 


FROM  WILD 
MEADOWS 


HROUGH  cool  dry  dust  the 

wagons  rattle, 
Their  talk  subdued  and  grave 

and  low. 

The  horses  walk  with  heads  low  hanging, 
Their  footfalls  muffled,  rhythmical  and  slow. 

Upon  the  weedy  load  of  rank  fall  grasses, 
I  lie  and  watch  the  daylight  wane, 
Hearing  the  distant  thresher's  howl  and  clatter 
And  cow-bells  moving  down  the  dusty  lane. 

The  darkness  deepens  and  the  stars  appearing 
Line  out  the  march  of  coming  night. 
And  now  I  catch  the  sound  of  farm-yard's  bustle 
And  cross  the  kitchen's  band  of  friendly,  fragrant 
light. 

Familiar  voices  call,  the  falling  neck-yokes  rattle, 
The  pump  gives  out  its  welcome  squeal. 
The  barn's  gloom  swallows  team  and  drivers, 
And  mother's  call  to  supper  rings  a  hearty  peal. 

99 


100     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

O  fragrant  waste  of  autumn  grasses! 

0  prairie  by  the  plowshare  torn  and  rent! 

1  think  of  you  in  days  of  heat  and  hurry, 
Like  traveler  in  deserts  lost  and  spent. 

I  wonder  if  some  future  world  or  cycle 
Will  bring  again  those  radiant  seas  of  bloom, 
Wherein  all  life  seemed  fair  and  peaceful, 
And  bird  and  beast  found  generous  room. 

I'll  meet  them !    They  are  not  gone  forever! 
They  lie  somewhere,  those  sun-lit  prairie  lands, 
Unstained  of  blood,  possessed  of  peace  and  plenty 
Untouched  by  greed's  all  desolating  hands. 


FIRE 


CREEPING  serrate  line  of  dusty 
red, 

That  gnaws  its  way  across  a 

smooth  low  hill 
Toward  long  ricks  of  grain. 
Silhouetted  against  the  murky  light  four  men, 
With  spades  at  back,  stride  singly 
With  unhasting  resolute  action  along  the  hill 
From  left  to  right.    Against  the  wall 
Of  red  and  purple  smoke 
Each  form  leans  in  sharp  outline; 
The  smell  of  burning  hay  fills  the  train; 
Then  loosely,  amply,  as  a  curtain  falls 
Swinging  in  the  wind,  the  smoke  shuts  down 
And  all  is  lost  to  sight. 


102     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

BOYISH  SLEEP. 

And  all  night  long  we  lie  in  sleep, 

Too  sweet  to  sigh  in,  or  to  dream, 
Unnoting  how  the  wild  winds  sweep, 

Or  snow  clouds  through  the  darkness  stream 
Above  the  trees  that  moan  and  sigh 

And  clutch  with  naked  hands  the  sky. 
Beneath  the  checkered  counterpane 

We  rest  the  soundlier  for  the  storm; 
Its  wrath  is  only  lullaby, 

A  far  off,  vast  and  dim  refrain. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     103 
THE  HERDSMAN. 

A  waste  of  grasses  dry  as  hair; 
Stillness ;  insects'  buff,  and  glare 
Of  white-hot  sunshine  everywhere! 

The  herdsman  like  a  statue  sits 
Upon  his  panting  horse.    While  far  below 
The  herd  moves  soundlessly  as  a  shadow  flits, 
The  weak  wind  mumbles  some  mysterious  word. 

The  word  grows  louder,  and  a  thrill 

Of  action  runs  along  the  hot  twin  bands 

Of  steel.    A  low  roar  quivers  in  the  ear,  and  still 

No  motion  else  in  all  the  spotted  sands. 

The  roar  grows  brazen,  and  a  yell 

Bursts  from  an  unseen  iron  throat; 

The  herdsman's  eyes  rest  on  a  distant  swell, 

Whence  seems  to  come  the  savage  welcome  note. 

Sudden  it  comes!     A  crawling,  thunderous  thing, 
A  monstrous  serpent  hot  with  haste, 
The  cannon-ball  express  with  rushing  swing 
Circles  the  butte  and  roars  across  the  waste. 

The  embodied  might  of  these  our  iron  days, 
The  glittering  moving  city  rushes  toward  the  east, 
Bringing  for  a  single  instant  face  to  face 
Barbaric  loneliness  and  a  flying  feast. 


104     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

A  roguish  maiden  from  an  open  window  throws 
(Or  drops)  her  handkerchief  among  the  cacti  spears, 
The  herdsman  plucks  and  wears  it  like  a  rose 
Upon  his  breast,  and  laughs  to  hide  his  grateful 
tears. 

Again  the  waste  of  grasses  crisp  as  hair; 
Stillness;  crickets  chirp,  and  glare 
Of  boundless  sunshine  everywhere  ! 


RUSHING  EAGLE 


WITH  look  so  like  a  lion's 

frown, 

Savage  but  sovereign;  sombre  as  Hamlet, 
Rebellious  as  Brutus,  desperate  as  Leonidas, 
He  fronts  the  world — the  chieftain  of  a  race 
Condemned  to  die. 

What  tragedy  compares  with  this — 
A  racial  death!     Here  and  there 
A  chieftain  understands.    Guiltless  as  the  panther, 
Wild  as  the  soul  of  every  wronged 
And  cheated  man,  he  leaps  upon 
The  wall  of  circling  flame,  and  falls  and  dies 
Like  a  trapped  wolf. 

Here  and  there  a  leader  goes  among 
His  enemies,  and  comprehends  at  last 
The  height  and  breadth  and  pitilessness 
Of  the  flood  that  sweeps  him  away. 
Then  his  face  settles  in  lines  like  those 
Of  Lear,  and  his  heart  swells  and  breaks, 
105 


106     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

And  in  the  dim  shelter  of  his  tent 
He  draws  his  rags  about  him 
And  dies  defiantly. 

Blessed  be  his  faith  in  happy  hunting-grounds. 
For  nothing  here  is  left  but  beggary 
And  melancholy  change. 


OOLNESS,  ripeness  and  repose; 
The  smell  of  gathered  grains 

and  fruits, 

The  musky  odor  of  melons  everywhere. 
The  very  dust  is  fruity,  and  the  click 
Of  locusts'  wings  is  like  the  close 
Of  gates  upon  great  stores  of  wheat. 
The  gathered  grain  bleaches  in  shock, 
The  corn  breathes  on  me  from  the  west, 
And  the  sky-line  widens  on  and  on, 
Until  I  see  the  waves  of  yellow-green 
Break  on  the  hills  that  face  the  snow  and  lilac 
Peaks  of  Colorado  mountains. 

The  sun,  half-sunk, 
Burns  through  the  dusty  crimson  sky. 
Streamers  of  gold  and  green  soar 
In  radiating  bands,  like  spokes 
Of  God's  immeasurable  chariot  wheels,          , 
Half-sunk  and  falling.  107 


108     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

The  cattle  feed  about  me,  here, 
Sociably,  gnawing  the  scant  dry  grass. 
I  hear  their  quick  short  sighs 
As  one  by  one  they  settle  for  the  night. 
All  is  peaceful — save  the  dull  report 
Of  murderous,  quick-repeating  gun 
Of  some  insatiate  sportsman. 

Through  the  hot  haze 
The  rapid  rattle  of  a  hay-rack  goes, 
And  as  it  passes  leaves  a  trail 
Of  boyish  memories,  fading,  falling 
Like  the  yellow  dust  that  drifts 
Behind  the  hay-rack's  wheels. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     109 

THE  STAMPEDE. 

There's  a  roar  in  the  depth  of  the  darkness, 
There's  the  thunder  of  fast-flying  feet, 
For  the  herd  is  awake  and  blind-rushing, 
Made  mad  with  the  wind  and  the  sleet. 

They  stream  through  the  swale  like  a  river, 
A  flood  of  black  mud  on  the  white 
Of  the  snow-covered  ground — and  their  going 
Is  wild  as  an  army  in  flight. 

Above  the  mixed  tumult  and  trample, 
Over  clashing  of  horns  in  the  dark — 
Over  bellowing  of  bulls,  the  herder 
Lifts  voice  like  the  song  of  the  lark. 

Round,  round  in  a  circle  he  crowds  them, 
Singing  on,  growing  hoarse  in  his  song; 
Still  riding  and  singing  till  morning, 
Though  it's  cold  and  the  night-time  is  long. 

He  has  saved  the  herd  for  another, 
And  what  is  his  hope,  his  reward? 
A  dollar  a  day  and  a  tent  cloth 
To  cover  his  sleep  on  the  sward. 

His  owner  knows  nothing  and  cares  not — 
That  night  he  sat  at  the  play 
And  tossed  a  bouquet  to  the  danseuse, 
Worth  twice  the  brave  herder's  poor  pay. 


110     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

SPORT. 

Somewhere,  in  deeps 
Of  tangled  ripening  wheat, 
A  little  prairie-chicken  cries — 
Lost  from  its  fellows,  it  pleads  and  weeps. 
Meanwhile,  stained  and  mangled, 

With  dust-filled  eyes, 
The  unreplying  mother  lies 
Limp  and  bloody  at  the  sportman's  feet. 


0  cool  gray  jug  that  touched  the  lips 
In  kiss  that  softly  closed  and  clung! 

No  Spanish  wine  the  tippler  sips, 

Or  Port  the  poet's  praise  has  sung, 
Such  pure,  untainted  sweetness  yields 
As  cool  gray  jug  in  harvest  fields. 

1  see  it  now!     A  clover  leaf 

Outspread  upon  its  sweating  side — 
As  from  the  standing  sheaf 

1  pluck  and  swing  it  high,  the  wide 
Field  glows  with  noon-day  heat — 
The  winds  are  tangled  in  the  wheat. 


112     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

The  myriad  crickets  blithely  cheep; 

Across  the  swash  of  ripened  grain 
1  see  the  burnished  reaper  creep — 

The  lunch-boy  comes,  and  once  again 
The  jug  its  crystal  coolness  yields — 
O  cool  gray  jug  in  harvest  fields! 


THE'GRAY-WQLF 


SHADOWY  beast  is  the 

gaunt  gray  wolf, 
And  his  foot  falls  soft  on 

a  carpet  of  spines, 
Where  the  night  shuts  quick  over  coverts  of  firs; 
He  haunts  the  deeps  of  the  northern  pines. 

His  eyes  are  eager,  his  teeth  are  keen, 
As  he  slips  at  night  through  the  brush  like  a 
snake, 

Crouching  and  cringing  straight  into  the  wind, 
To  leap  with  a  laugh  on  the  fawn  in  the  brake. 

He  falls  like  a  flash  on  the  partridge  hen 
Brooding  her  young  in  the  wind-bent  weeds, 

Or  listens  to  hear,  with  a  start  of  greed, 
The  bittern  booming  from  river  reeds. 

When  the  chill,  snow-laden  roaring  blast 
Swirls  round  the  woodmen's  camp  at  night, 

And  beats  like  a  spectral  bird  at  the  pane, 
The  men  sit  circling  the  broad  red  light. 


114      PRAIRIE   SONGS 

Then  the  story  is  told  by  some,  of  a  mate 
Or  friend,  long  lost  in  the  dark  and  snows, 

Who  never  came  back,  whose  awful  fate 
And  scattered  bones'  sepulchre  the  wolf  only 
knows. 

And  the  voices  sink  to  a  lower  tone, 
As  far  in  the  deeps  of  the  sighing  pines 

A  lone  wolf's  howl,  blends  with  the  moan 
Of  the  wind  in  the  eaves  as  it  sobs  and  whines. 

When  the  lights  are  out  and  the  men  asleep, 
The  wolves,  grown  bolder,  sniff  and  peer 

From  the  fartherest  shades  and  vainly  leap 
Round  the  tree  in  the  clearing  where  hang  the 
deer; 

Till  afar  in  the  darkness,  signal  yells 
And  a  scurrying  chorus  of  yelps  and  cries, 

To  the  baffled  watch  on  the  clearing  tells 
That  a  frantic  deer  through  the  tempest  flies. 

Oh!  a  shadowy  beast  is  the  gray,  grizzled  wolf, 
Where  his  feet  fall  soft  on  a  carpet  of  spines; 

When  the  night  is  dark  and  the  storm  sings  high 
His  voice  is  abroad  in  the  tossing  pines. 

He's  the  symbol  of  hunger  the  whole  earth  through, 

His  specter  sits  at  the  door  of  care, 
And  the  homeless  hear  with  a  thrill  of  fear 

The  sound  of  his  wind-swept  voice  on  the  air. 


~'~^  »      LONELY  task  it  is  to  plow! 

All  day  the  black  and  shining 

soil 

Rolls  like  a  ribbon  from  the  mold-board's 
Glistening  curve.    All  day  the  horses  toil 
And  battle  with  the  flies,  and  strain 
Their  creaking  harnesses.    All  day 
The  crickets  jeer  from  wind-blown  shocks  of  grain. 

October  brings  the  frosty  dawn, 

The  still  warm  noon  and  cold,  clear  night, 

When  stiffened  crickets  make  no  sound 

And  wild  ducks  in  their  southward  flight 

Go  by  in  haste — and  still  the  boy 

And  toiling  team  gnaw  round  by  round, 

On  weather-beaten  stubble  band  by  band, 

Until  at  last,  to  his  great  joy, 

The  winter's  frost  seals  up  the  unplowed  land. 


116     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

A  TRIBUTE  OF  GRASSES. 

TO  W.  W. 

Serene,  vast  head,  with  silver  cloud  of  hair 

Lined  on  the  purple  dusk  of  death, 

A  stern  medallion,  velvet  set — 

Old  Norseman,  throned,  not  chained  upon  thy  chair, 

Thy  grasp  of  hand,  thy  hearty  breath 

Of  welcome  thrills  me  yet 

As  when  1  faced  thee  there! 

Loving  my  plain  as  thou  thy  sea, 
Facing  the  East  as  thou  the  West, 
I  bring  a  handful  of  grass  to  thee — 
The  prairie  grasses  1  know  the  best; 
Type  of  the  wealth  and  width  of  the  plain, 
Strong  of  the  strength  of  the  wind  and  sleet, 
Fragrant  with  sunlight  and  cool  with  rain, 
I  bring  it  and  lay  it  low  at  thy  feet, 
Here  by  the  eastern  sea. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      117 
MOODS  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

The  plain  has  moods  like  the  sea: 
It  is  filled  with  voices  and  stir 
Of  wings,  when  the  dust-clouds  flee 
On  the  burning  wind,  and  the  whirr 
Of  the  crickets  is  lost  in  the  roar 
And  the  ramp  of  the  southern  gale; 
When  the  swash  of  the  wheat  runs  high, 
And  the  querulous  gulls  are  a-sail 
In  the  pitiless  August  sky. 

*        *        * 

And  the  next  day  rises  fair 

With  a  threat  of  cloud  in  the  West; 

And  gentle  and  sweet  through  the  air 

Steals  the  rustle  of  grain — the  winds  rest. 

But  far  in  the  West,  the  loom 

Of  cloud  is  half-concealed 

By  sheen  of  sunlight — till  the  boom 

Of  thunder  like  a  signal  gun 

Shatters  the  veil — and  so  revealed, 

The  gathered  tempest  reels  across  the  sun. 

The  plain  grows  dark;  like  the  sea 
It  holds  no  shelter.    Dwarfed  to  grains 
Of  sand,  the  settlers'  cabins  cower 
Before  the  tempest,  lost  in  the  rain's 
Gray  wall  of  dust  and  spray.    The  lower 
Of  clouds  makes  mid-day  night.    The  crash 


118     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Of  siege  guns  would  be  lost  within 
The  pulsing  roar,  the  illimitable  din 
Of  sprangling  lightning,  flash  on  flash. 


The  roar  recedes.    The  eager  eye 

Sees  the  darkness  lighten.    Each  glare  grows 

Each  moment  dimmer.    A  rift 

Of  western  sky  a  golden  crescent  shows. 

The  wind  lulls  and  dripping  flowers  lift 

And  watch  the  daylight  come  again. 

The  plain  smells  sweet,  as  the  skies 

Broaden  and  lighten,  and  from  the  trampled  grain 

The  lark's  exultant  flutings  rise. 


NORTHER 


HERE  are  voices  of  pain 
In  the  autumn  rain, 
There  are  pipings  drear  in  the  grassy 

waste; 

There  are  lifting  swells  whose  crests  arise 
Till  they  touch  and  blend  with  the  leaden  skies 
IVhere  massed  clouds  wildly  haste. 

I  sit  on  my  horse  in  boot  and  spur 

As  the  night  falls  drear 

On  the  lonely  plain.    Afar  I  hear 
The  cry  of  goose,  and  swift  wings  whirr 
Through  the  graying  deeps  of  the  upper  air — 

Like  weary  great  birds  the  clouds  sail  low: 

The  wind  now  wails  like  a  woman  in  woe, 
Now  mutters  and  growls  like  a  lion  in  lair. 

Lost  on  the  prairie ! 

All  day  alone 

With  my  boyish  pride,  my  swift  Ladrone 
And  the  shapes  on  the  shadow  my  startled 


brain  cast. 


119 


120      PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Which  way  is  north?    Which  way  is  west? 

I  ask  Ladrone,  for  he  knows  best, 

And  he  turns  his  head  to  the  blast. 

He  whinnies  and  turns  at  my  voice's  sound, 

And  then  impatiently  paws  the  ground. — 

The  night's  gray  turns  to  a  starless  black, 

And  the  drifting  mizzle  and  scurrying  rack 

Have  melted  afar  into  rayless  night. 

The  wind,  like  an  actor  childish  with  age, 

Plays  favorite  characters,  now  sobs  with  rage, 

Now  flees  like  a  child  in  fright. 

I  turn  from  the  wind  (a  treacherous  guide) 

And  touch  my  knee  to  the  glossy  side 

Of  my  steaming  horse,  and  the  prairie  wide 

Slips  by  like  the  sea  under  bounding  keel; 

As  I  pat  his  neck  and  feel  the  reel 

Of  his  mighty  chest  and  swift  limbs'  play, 

The  sorrowful  wind  voice  dies  away. 

The  coyote  starts  from  a  shivering  sleep 

On  the  grassy  edge  of  a  gully  deep 

And  silently  slips  through  the  wind-bent  weeds; 

The  prairie  hen  from  beneath  our  feet 

Springs  up  in  haste,  with  swift  wing's  beat, 

And  into  the  dark  like  a  bullet  speeds. 

Which  way  is  east?    Which  way  is  south? 

Is  not  to  be  answered,  when  dark  as  the  mouth 

Of  a  red-lipped  wolf  the  night  shuts  down — 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     121 

I  look  in  vain  for  a  star  or  light — 
Ladrone  speeds  on  with  dull  thud  flight, 
His  ears  laid  back  in  an  anxious  frown. 

The  long  grass  breaks  on  my  horse's  breast 
As  foam  is  dashed  from  the  billow's  crest 

By  a  keen-prowed  ship; 
I  see  it  not,  but  I  hear  the  whip 
On  my  stirrup  shield,  and  feel  the  rush 
And  spiteful  lash  of  the  hazel  brush. 

The  night  grows  colder,  the  wind  again — 
Ab  what's  that!    I  pull  at  the  rein 
And  turn  my  face  to  the  blast — 
It  was  snow  on  my  cbeek!    Ay,  thick  and  fast 
The  startled  snows  through  the  darkness  leapt, 
As  massed  on  the  mighty  north  wind's  wing 
Like  an  air-borne  army's  rushing  swing 
The  awful  shadow  upon  me  swept. 

I  bowed  my  bead  till  tbe  floating  mane 
Of  my  panting  borse  warmed  cheek  again, 
And  plunged  straight  into  tbe  nigbt  amain. 


Day  came  and  found  me  slowly  riding  on 
With  senses  bound  as  in  a  chain. 
Through  drifting  deeps  of  snow,  Ladrone, 
Dumbly  faithful,  plodded  on,  the  rein 
Flung  low  upon  his  weary  neck. 


122     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

I  long  had  ceased  to  fear  or  reck 
Or  death  by  cold  or  wolf  or  snow, 
Bent  grimly  on  my  saddle  bow. 

My  limbs  were  numb,  I  seemed  to  ride 
Upon  some  viewless  rushing  tide — 
My  hands  hung  helpless  at  my  side. 
The  multitudinous  trampling  snows 
With  solemn,  ceaseless  myriad  din 
Swept  round  and  over  me;  far  and  wide, 
A  roaring  silence  shut  the  senses  in! 
Above  me  through  the  hurtling  shrouds 
The  far  sky,  red  with  morning,  glows, 
Looked  down  at  times 

And  then  was  lost  in  clouds. 

But  were  my  tongue  with  poet's  spell 
Aflame  and  free,  I  could  not  tell 
The  tale  of  biting  hunger,  cold,  the  hell 
Of  frenzied  thoughts  that  age-long  night! 
How  life  seemed  only  in  my  brain;  the  wind 
The  foam-white  breeze  of  wintry  seas 
That  roared  in  wrath  from  left  to  right, 
Striking  me  helpless,  deaf  and  blind. 
*        #        * 

The  third  morn  broke  upon  my  sight, 
Streamed  through  the  window  of  the  room 
In  which  I  woke,  I  knew  not  how. 
Broke  radiant  in  a  golden  bloom, 
As  though  God  smiled  away  the  night! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      123 

Like  an  eternal  changeless  sea 
Of  burnished  marble  lay  the  plain, 
In  dazzling,  moveless,  soundless  waste — 
Horizon-girt,  without  a  stain. 

The  air  was  still.    No  breath  of  sound 
Came  from  the  white  expanse — 
The  whole  earth  seemed  to  wait  in  trance, 
In  hushed  expectant  silence  bound. 
And,  O  the  beauty  of  the  eastern  sky, 
Where  glowed  the  herald  banners  of  the  king! 
And  as  I  looked  with  famished  eye— 
Lo!  day  came  on  me  with  a  spring. 

Along  the  iridescent  billows  of  the  snow 
The  sun  shot  slender,  glancing  beams — 
Like  flaming  arrows  from  the  bow 
They  broke  on  every  crest,  and  gleams 

Of  radiant  fire 

Alit  on  every  spire 
Along  the  great  king's  pathway  as  he  came. 

And  cloudless,  soft,  serene  as  May, 

Opened  the  jocund  day! 


LRDRONE 


ND  what  of  Ladrone,  do 

you  ask? 
Ah,  friend,  I  am  sad  at  the 

name! 

My  splendid  fleet  roan! — the  task 
You  require  is  a  hard  one  at  best. 
Swift  as  the  spectral  coyote,  as  tame 
Tc  my  voice  as  a  sweetheart — an  eye 
Like  a  pool  in  the  woodland  asleep, 
Brown,  clear  and  calm,  with  color  down  deep 
Where  his  brave,  proud  soul  seemed  to  lie. 

Ladrone!     There's  a  spell  in  the  name, 
The  dank  walls  fade  on  my  eye — the  roar 
Of  the  city  grows  dim,  as  a  dream; 
My  spirit  leaps  up  as  to  soar; 
Once  more  I'm  asweep  on  the  plain, 
The  summer  wind  sings  in  my  hair; 
Once  again  I  hear  the  wild  crane 
Crying  deep  in  the  shimmering  air; 
White  clouds  are  adrift  on  the  breeze, 
The  flowers  nod  under  our  feet, 


126     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

And  under  my  thighs — 'twixt  my  knees, 
Again,  as  of  old,  I  can  feel 
The  roll  of  Ladrone's  vast  muscles,  the  reel 
Of  his  chest — see  the  thrust  of  fore-limb 
And  hear  the  dull  trample  of  heel ! 

We  thunder  behind  the  wild  herd, 
My  singing  whip  swirls  like  a  snake; 
Hurrah!  we  swoop  on  like  a  bird, 
With  Ladrone's  proud  record  at  stake — 
For  the  shaggy,  swift  leader  has  stride 
Like  the  last  of  a  long  kingly  line. 
Her  eyes  flash  fire  through  her  hair, 
She  tosses  her  head  in  disdain, 
Her  mane  streams  abroad  in  the  air — 
She  leads  the  mad  herd  of  the  plain 
As  a  wolf  leader  leads  his  gaunt  pack 
On  the  slot  of  the  desperate  deer — 
Their  exultant  eyes  savagely  shine! 

But  down  on  the  leader's  broad  back 
Stings  my  lash  like  a  rill  of  red  flame — 
Huzza,  my  wild  beauty,  your  best! 
Will  you  teach  my  Ladrone  a  new  pace  ? 
Will  you  break  his  proud  heart  with  a  shame 
By  spurning  the  dust  in  his  face  ? 

The  herd  falls  behind  and  is  lost 

As  we  race  neck  and  neck,  stride  and  stride — 

Again  the  long  whip  hisses  hot 

Along  the  gray  mare's  glossy  side — 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      127 

Aha,  she  is  lost!    She  does  not  respond— 
The  storm  of  her  speed's  at  its  best — 
Now  I  lean  to  the  ear  of  my  roan 
And  shout,  letting  fall  the  tight  rein: 
Like  a  hound  from  the  leash  my  Ladrone 
Swoops  ahead — 

We're  alone  on  the  plain! 


Yes,  alone  on  the  wide,  solemn  prairie 
I  ride  with  my  rifle  in  hand, 
My  eyes  on  the  watch  for  the  wary 
And  beautiful  antelope  band; 

Or,  sleeping  at  night  in  the  grasses,  I  hear 

Ladrone  grazing  near  in  the  gloom. 

His  listening  head  on  the  sky 

Comes  back,  etched  complete  to  the  ear. 

From  the  river  below  comes  the  boom 

Of  the  bittern,  the  trill  and  the  cry 

Of  frogs  in  the  pool,  and  shrill  crickets'  chime, 

Making  ceaseless  and  marvelous  rhyme. 

'But  what  of  his  fate  ?     Did  be  die 
When  that  terrible  tempest  was  done  ? 
When  he  staggered  with  you  to  the  light, 
And  the  fight  with  the  Norther  was  won  ? 
Did  he  live  like  a  guest  at  your  door  ? 

No,  friend,  not  so,  I — sold  him  outright. 


128     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

What,  sold  your  preserver  ?    He  who 
Through  wind  and  -wild  snow  and  detp  night 
Brought  you  safe  to  a  shelter  at  last ! 
Did  you,  when  the  danger  had  ended, 
Forget  your  dumb  hero,  your  friend  ? 

Forget?    No,  nor  shall  I — why,  man! 

It's  little  you  know  of  such  love 

As  I  felt  for  him — you  think  that  you  feel 

The  same  deep  regard  for  your  span, 

Blanketed,  shining,  and  clipped  to  the  heel. 

But  my  horse  was  companion  and  friend, 

My  playmate,  my  ship  on  the  sea 

Of  dun  grasses;  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 

Unhoused  and  hungry  sometimes,  he 

Served  me  for  love,  he  needed  no  tether! 

No,  I  cannot  forget;  but  who 

Is  the  master  of  fortune  or  fate? 

Who  does  as  he  wishes  and  not  as  he  must? 

When  I  sold  my  preserver,  my  mate, 

My  faithf ulest  friend,  man,  I  wept — 

Yes,  I  own  it!    His  beautiful  eyes 

Seemed  to  ask  what  it  meant,  and  he  kept 

Them  fixed  on  me  in  startled  surprise, 

As  another  hand  led  him  away, 

And  the  last  that  I  heard  of  my  roan 

Was  the  sound  of  his  shrill,  pleading  neigh. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      129 

O  magic  west  wind  of  the  mountain  ! 

0  steed  with  the  stinging  mane! 

In  sleep  I  draw  rein  at  the  fountain, 

But  wake  with  a  shiver  of  pain; 

For  the  heart  and  the  heat  of  the  city 

Are  walls  and  prison  and  chain. 

Lost  my  Ladrone,  gone  the  wild  living — 

1  dream,  but  my  dreaming  is  vain. 


I30 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      131 
ACROSS  THE  PICKET  LINE. 

After  we  'd  been  a-chasiir  old  Hood 

And  penned  him  into  Atlanty, 
Uncle  Billy,  doggone  him  !  stood 

Around  behind  us  t'  make  us  anty 
A-diggin'  dirt  and  a-cuttin'  ditches, 

F'r  days  and  days  !  an'  top  o'  that, 
We  slep',  side-arms  in  our  britches 

Ready  t'  fight  at  the  drop  o'  the  hat. 

Wai !    The  rebel  pickets  got  closer  'n'  closer 

Till  blame  near  we  could  almost  see 
The  kind  o'  fellers  the  Johnnies  was, 

An'  talk  as  easy  as  you  an'  me 
Out  in  the  field  here  plowin'  corn 

An'gassin'  across  the  dividin'  line. 
Yessir !    An'  there  we  'd  set  an'  trade  off  lies 

About  the  war,  and  provisions,  tell 
Some  feller  'd  sing  out  "Hunt  y'r  holes  ! 

Give  the  last  man  sinjen'  hell !  " 

Wai !     Every  night  we  c'd  hear  'em  sing 

"  Old  Hundred,"  or  "  Salvation's  Free," 
An'  we  'd  join  in  and  make  things  ring — 

An'  so  we  got  t'  know,  y'  see, 
Jest  when  the  Johnnies  meant  t'  shell 

'R  charge  next  day,  'r  spring  a  mine 
For  when  they  'd  plan  'd  t'  give  us  hell 

They  'd  sing  of  heaven  all  'long  the  line. 


132     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Fact !    Yesslr,  sure's  y'r  born, 

1  never  see  the  singin'  fail, 
Always  brought  a  storm  next  day 

With  bullets  flyin'  thick  as  hail, 
An'  them  there  Rebs  a-scramblin'  right 

Straight  up  to  our  blessed  eyes — 
Teeth  gritted,  faces  white — 

An'  yellin'  fit  to  raise  the  skies. 

'Fraid  ?    Not  by  a  darn  sight  1    They 

Didn't  know  what  the  word  meant. 
No  sir — they  'd  jest  nacherly  pray 

An'  wherever  a  man  'ud  go,  they  went; 
They  wa'n't  no  discount  on  their  grit, 

And  I  don't  bear  'em  any  spite. 
We  met  like  men,  an'  settled  it, 

And  I  guess  they  think  it's  settled  right. 


EN  IfS  SPRING 


HEN  the  hens  begin 

a-squawkin' 

An'  a-rollin'  in  the  dust; 
When  the  rooster  takes 

to  talkin', 

An'  a-crowin'  fit  to  bust; 
When  the  crows  are  cawin',  flockin' 
An'  the  chickuns  boom  and  sing, 
Then  it's  spring! 

When  the  roads  are  jest  one  mud-hole 
And  the  worter  tricklin'  round, 

Makes  the  barn-yard  like  puddle, 
An'  softens  up  the  ground 

Till  y'r  ankle-deep  in  worter, 

Sayin'  words  y'r  hadn't  orter — 
When  the  jay-birds  swear  an'  sing, 
Then  it's  spring! 


133 


134     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

LOGAN  AT  PEACH  TREE  CREEK. 

A  VETERAN'S  STORY. 

You  know  that  day  at  Peach  Tree  Creek, 
When  the  Rebs  with  their  circling,  scorching  wall 
Of  smoke-hid  cannon  and  sweep  of  flame 
Drove  in  our  flanks,  back!  back!  and  all 
Our  toil  seemed  lost  in  the  storm  of  shell — 
That  desperate  day  McPherson  fell! 

Our  regiment  stood  in  a  little  glade 
Set  round  with  half-grown  red  oak  trees — 
An  awful  place  to  stand,  in  full  fair  sight, 
While  the  minie  bullets  hummed  like  bees, 
And  comrades  dropped  on  either  side — 
That  fearful  day  McPherson  died! 

The  roar  of  the  battle,  steady,  stern, 

Rung  in  our  ears.    Upon  our  eyes 

The  belching  cannon  smoke,  the  half-hid  swing 

Of  deploying  troops,  the  groans,  the  cries, 

The  hoarse  commands,  the  sickening  smell — 

That  blood-red  day  McPherson  fell! 

But  we  stood  there! — when  out  from  the  trees, 
Out  of  the  smoke  and  dismay  to  the  right 
Burst  a  rider — His  head  was  bare,  his  eye 
Had  a  blaze  like  a  lion  fain  for  fight; 
His  long  hair,  black  as  the  deepest  night, 
Streamed  out  on  the  wind.    And  the  might 
Of  his  plunging  horse  was  a  tale  to  tell, 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      135 

And  his  voice  rang  high  like  a  bugle's  swell; 
"  Men,  the  enemy  hem  us  on  every  side; 
We'll  whip  'em  yet!   Close  up  that  breach — 
Remember  your  flag — don't  give  an  inch! 
The  right  flank's  gaining  and  soon  will  reach- 
Forward,  boys,  and  give  'em  hell!" — 
Said  Logan,  after  McPherson  fell. 
We  laughed  and  cheered  and  the  red  ground  shook, 
As  the  general  plunged  along  the  line 
Through  the  deadliest  rain  of  screaming  shells; 
For  the  sound  of  his  voice  refreshed  us  all, 
And  we  filled  the  gap  like  a  roaring  tide, 
And  saved  the  day  McPherson  died! 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago, 

And  part  of  a  horrible  dream  now  past. 

For  Logan,  the  lion,  the  drums  throb  low 

And  the  flag  swings  low  on  the  mast; 

He  has  followed  his  mighty  chieftain  through 

The  mist-hung  stream,  where  gray  and  blue 

One  color  stand, 

And  North  to  South  extends  the  hand. 

It's  right  that  deeds  of  war  and  blood 
Should  be  forgot,  but,  spite  of  all, 
I  think  of  Logan,  now,  as  he  rode 
That  day  across  the  field;  I  hear  the  call 
Of  his  trumpet  voice — see  the  battle  shine 
In  his  stern,  black  eyes,  aud  down  the  line 
Of  cheering  men  I  see  him  ride, 
As  on  the  day  McPherson  died. 


136     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

PAID  HIS  WAY. 

No,  Steve,  I  aint  complainin'  any, 

I  '11  go — if  y'  think  it 's  right; 

I  don't  ask  a  single  bite  n'r  a  penny 

More  n'r  less  'n  jest  what 's  white — 

But  son,  bime  by,  when  the  old  man 's  done  for, 

Jest  remember  my  words  to-day. 

Y'  don't  like  to  have  me  round  h'yere, 

But  I  reckon  I  've  paid  m'  way! 

I  was  eighty-one  last  January — 

Born  in  the  Buckeye  State, 

I  've  opened  two  farms  on  the  prairie, 

An'  worked  on  'em  early  and  late. 

Come  rain  or  come  shine,  a  scrapin'  t'  earn 

Every  mouthful  we  eat,  an'  want  'o  say, 

That  I  never  rode  in  no  free  concern 

That  I  did  n't  pay  my  way. 

Y'r  mother  and  me  worked  mighty  hard, 

How  hard  you  '11  never  know, 

In  cold  and  heat  a-standin'  guard 

To  keep  off  the  rain  and  snow. 

The  mortgige  kep'  eatin'  in  nearer  to  bone, 

And  the  war  it  come  along  too, 

But  I  went — left  mother  alone 

With  Sis  in  the  cradle — and  you. 

Served  my  time;  an'  commenced  agin 
On  an  loway  prairie  quarter, 


PRAIRIE   SONGS      137 

An'  there  I  plowed  an'  sowed  an'  fenced, 

And  nigged  as  no  human  orter, 

To  raise  you  young  ones  and  feed  m'  wife — 

Y'r  mothei  scrimped  and  scrubbed  till  her  hair 

was  gray, 
And  1  reckon  we  paid  our  way. 

No!  y'r  high-toned  tavern  aint  good  enough 

F'r  a  man  like  me  to  die  in, 

The  work  that 's  made  me  crooked  and  rough 

Should  'a'earned  me  a  bed  to  lie  in 

Under  the  roof  of  my  only  son — 

If  his  wife  is  proud  'an  gay; 

For  I  boosted  y'  into  the  place  y've  won — 

O  I  reckon  I  've  paid  my  way! 

Y'r  wife  I  know  is  turrible  set- 
She 's  mighty  hansom  to  see 
I'll  admit,  but  it's  a  turrible  fret 
This  havin'  to  eat  with  me. 
She  never  speaks,  and  she  never  seems 
To  be  listnin'  to  what  I  say — 
But  the  childern  do!  they  don't  know  yet, 
Their  grandad  's  in  the  way. 

I'd  know  's  you  're  very  much  to  blame 

For  wantin'  to  have  me  go, 

But,  Steve,  I'm  glad  y'r  mother's  dead — 

'Twould  break  her  heart  to  know. 

She'd  say  I  orter  live  here, 

What  time  I've  got  to  stay, 


138     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

For,  Stephen,  I  've  travelled  for  fifty  years 
An'  I've  always  paid  my  way. 

I  ain't  a-goin'  to  bother  y'  long, 

I'll  be  a  pioneerin'  further  West 

Where  mother  is,  and  God  '11  say 

Take  it  easy,  Amos,  y  've  earned  a  rest — 

So,  Stevie,  I  want  to  stay  with  you — 

I  want  'o  -work  while  I  stay, 

Jes'  give  me  a  little  sumpin'  to  do, 

I  reckon  I  '11  pay  my  way. 


HORSES  CHAVIN  HAY 


TELL  yeh  whut!     The 

chankin' 

Which  the  tired  horses 
makes 
When  you've  slipped  the  harness  off'm 

An'  shoved  the  hay  in  flakes 
From  the  hay-mow  overhead, 

Is  jest  about  the  equal  of  any  pi-any; 
They's  nothin"  soun's  s'  cumftabul 
As  horses  chawin'  hay. 

I  love  t'  hear  'em  chankin', 

Jest  a-grindin'  slow  and  low, 
With  their  snoots  a-rootin'  clover 

Deep  as  their  ol'  heads  '11  go. 
It's  kind  o'  sort  o'  restin' 

To  a  feller's  bones,  I  say. 
It  soun's  s'  mighty  cumftabul — 

The  horsus  chawin'  hay. 
139 


140     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Gra-onk,  gra-onk,  gra-onk! 

In  a  stiddy  kind  o'  tone, 
Not  a  tail  a-waggin'  to  'urn, 

N'r  another  sound  'r  groan — 
Per  the  flies  is  gone  a-snoozin'. 
Then  I  loaf  around  an'  watch  'em 

In  a  sleepy  kind  o'  way, 
F'r  they  soun'  so  mighty  cumftabul 

As  they  rewt  and  chaw  their  hay. 

An'  it  sets  me  thinkin'  sober 

Of  the  days  of  '53, 
When  we  pioneered  the  prairies — 

M'  wife  an'  dad  an'  me, 
In  a  dummed  ol'  prairie  schooner, 

In  a  rough-an'-tumble  way, 
Sleepin'  out  at  nights,  to  music 

Of  the  horsus  chawin'  hay. 

Or  I'm  thinkin'  of  my  comrades 
In  the  fall  of  '63, 

When  I  rode  with  ol'  Kilpatrick 
Through  on'  through  ol'  Tennessee. 

I'm  a-layin'  in  m'  blanket 
With  my  head  agin  a  stone, 

Gazin'  upwards  towards  the  North  Star- 
Billy  Sykes  and  Davy  Sloan 
A-snorin'  in  a  buck-saw  kind  o'  way, 

An'  me  a-layin',  listenin' 
To  the  horsus  chawin'  hay. 


PRAIRIE   SONGS      141 


It  strikes  me  turrible  cur'ous 

That  a  little  noise  like  that, 
Can  float  a  feller  backwards 

Like  the  droppin'  of  a  hat; 
An'  start  his  throat  a-achin', 

Make  his  eyes  wink  that  a-way — 
They  ain't  no  sound  that  gits  me 

Like  horsus  chawin'  hay! 


142     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

GROWING  OLD. 

Fr  forty  years  next  Easter  day, 
Him  and  me  in  wind  and  weather 

Have  been  a-gittin'  bent  'n'  gray 
Moggin'  along  together. 

We're  not  so  very  old,  of  course! 

But  still,  we  ain't  so  awful  spry 
As  when  we  went  to  singin'-school 

Afoot  and  'cross  lots,  him  and  1 — 
And  walked  back  home  the  longest  way — 

An'  the  moon  a-shinin'  on  the  snow, 
Makin'  the  road  as  bright  as  day 

An'  his  voice  talkin'  low. 

Land  sakes!     Jest  hear  me  talk — 

F'r  all  the  world,  jest  like  a  girl, 
Me — nearly  sixty! — Well-a-well! 

I  was  so  tall  and  strong,  the  curl 
In  my  hair,  Sim  said,  was  like 

The  crinkles  in  a  medder  brook, 
So  brown  and  bright!  but  there! 

I  guess  he  got  it  from  a  book. 

His  talk  in  them  there  days  was  full 
Of  jest  sech  nonsense — Don't  you  think 

I  didn't  like  it,  for  I  did! 
I  walked  along  there,  glad  to  drink 

His  words  in  like  the  breath  o'  life — 
Heavens  and  earth,  what  fools  we  women  be! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     143 

And  when  he  asked  me  for  his  wife, 
I  answered  '  Yes ',  of  course,  y'  see. 

An'  then  come  work,  and  trouble  bit — 
Not  much  time  for  love  talk  then! 

We  bought  a  farm  and  mortgaged  it, 
And  worked  and  slaved  like  all  possessed 
To  lift  that  turrible  grindin'  weight. 

I  washed  and  churned  and  sewed — 
An'  childurn  come,  till  we  had  eight 

As  han'some  babes  as  ever  growed 
To  walk  beside  a  mother's  knee. 
They  helped  me  bear  it  all,  y'  see. 

It  ain't  been  nothin'  else  but  scrub 

An'  rub  and  bake  and  stew 
The  hull,  hull  time,  over  stove  or  tub — 

No  time  to  rest  as  men  folks  do. — 
I  tell  yeh,  sometimes  I  sit  and  think 

How  nice  the  grave  'II  be,  jest 

One  nice,  sweet,  everlastin'  rest ! 

O  don't  look  scart!     I  mean 

Jest  what  1  say.    Ain't  crazy  yet, 
But  it's  enough  to  make  me  so — 

Of  course  it  ain't  no  use  to  fret — 
Who  said  it  was  ?    It's  nacherl,  though, 

But  O,  if  I  was  only  there — 
In  the  past,  and  young  once  more — 

An'  had  the  crinkles  in  my  hair — 


144     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

An'  arms  as  round  and  strong,  and  side 
As  it  was  then!— I'd— I'd— 

I'd  do  it  all  over  again,  like  a  fool, 
I  s'pose!    I'd  take  the  pain 
An'  work  an'  worry,  babes  and  all. 

I  s'pose  things  go  by  some  big  rule 
Of  God's  own  book,  but  my  ol'  brain 
Can't  fix  'urn  up,  so  I'll  just  wait 

An'  do  my  duty  when  it's  clear, 
An'  trust  to  Him  to  make  it  straight. 

Goodness  !  noon  is  almost  here, 

And  there  the  men  come  through  the  gate! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     145 
A  FARMER'S  WIFE. 

"Born  an'  scrubbed,  suffered  and  died." 
That's  all  you  need  to  say,  elder. 

Never  mind  sayin'  "  made  a  bride," 
Nor  when  her  hair  got  gray. 

Jes'  say,  born  'n  worked  t'  death; 

That  fits  it — save  y'r  breath. 

I  knew  M'tildy  when  a  girl, 
'N  a  darn  purty  girl  she  was  ! 

Her  hair  was  shiny  'n  full  o'  curl, 
An'  her  eyes  a  kind  o'  spring-day  blue. 

0, 1  know  !     Courted  her  once  m'self, 

Till  Brown  he  laid  me  on  the  shelf. 

I  've  seen  that  woman  once  a  week 
Ever  since  that  very  day  in  church, 

When  Ben  turned  round  'n  kissed  her  cheek 
And  the  preacher  knelt  to  pray. 

I  've  watched  her  growing  old  so  fast — 

Her  breath  just  flickered  toward  the  last. 

Made  me  think  of  a  clock  run  down, 
Sure  's  y'r  born,  that  woman  did; 

A  workin'  away  for  old  Ben  Brown 
Patient  as  Job  an'  meek  as  a  kid, 

Till  she  sort  o'  stopped  one  day — 

Heart  quit  tickin'  a  feller 'd  say. 


146     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Wasn't  old,  nuther,  forty-six — No, 
Jest  got  humpt,  an'  thin  an'  gray, 

Washin'  an'  churnin'  an'  sweepin',  by  Joe, 
F'r  fourteen  hours  or  more  a  day. 

Brats  o'  sickly  children  every  year 

To  drag  the  life  plum  out  o'  her. 

Worked  to  death.    Starved  to  death. 
Died  f'r  lack  of  air  an'  sun — 

Dyin'  f'r  rest,  and  f'r  jest  a  breath 
O'  simple  praise  fer  what  she'd  done. 

An'  many 's  the  woman  this  very  day 

Elder,  dyin'  slow  in  that  same  way. 


UT  on  the  snow  the  boys 

are  springing, 
Shouting  blithely  at  their  play, 
Through  the  night  their  voices  ringing 

Sound  the  cry,  Pom,  pull  away! 
Up  the  sky  the  round  moon  stealing, 
Trails  a  robe  of  shimmering  white; 
Overhead  the  Great  Bear  wheeling 
Round  the  pale  stars'  steady  light. 

The  air  with  frost  is  keen  and  stinging — 

"  Pom,  pom,  pull-away!" 
Big  boys  whistle,  girls  are  singing: 

"  Come  away  'r  I'll  fetch  ye  'way." 
Ah!  the  phrase  has  magic  in  it, 

Piercing  frosty  moon-lit  air, 
And  in  about  a  half-a-minute 

I  am  part  and  parcel  there. 


148     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Across  the  road  1  once  more  scurry, 

Through  the  thickest  of  the  fray, 
Sleeve  ripped  off  by  Andy  Murray — 

"  Let  'er  rip — Pom,  pull-away!  " 
Mother'll  mend  it  in  the  morning, 

(Dear  old  patient,  smiling  face!) 
One  more  patch  my  sleeve  adorning — 

"  Wboop  'er  up!"  is  no  disgrace. 

Moonbeams  on  the  snow-crust  splinter, 

Air  that  stirs  the  blood  like  wine; 
What  cared  we  for  cold  of  winter — 

Or  for  maiden's  soft  eyes'  shine  ? 
Give  us  but  a  score  of  skaters 

And  the  game  Pom,  pull-away, 
We  were  always  girl-beraters, 

Forgot  them  wholly,  truth  to  say. 

O  voices  through  the  night  air  ringing! 
O  thoughtless  happy  boys  at  play! 

0  silver  clouds  the  keen  wind  winging 
At  the  cry,  Pom,  pull  away! 

1  sit  and  dream  with  keenest  longing 

For  that  star-lit  magic  night — 
For  my  noisy  playmates  thronging 
And  the  slow  moon's  trailing  light. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     149 

COIN'  BACK  T'MORRER. 
(IN  THE  CITY.) 

I  tell  ye,  Sue,  it  ain't  no  use  ! 

I  can't  stay,  and  I  won't — 
W'y !  a  feller  'd  need  the  widder's  cruse 

T"  live  back  here  an'  stan'  the  brunt 
Of  all  expenses,  thick  and  thin — 

Too  many  men — ain't  land  enough 
T'  swing  a  feller's  elbows  in — 

I  'spose  you  '11  take  it  kind  a  rough 
But  I  'm  goin'  back  t'  morrer! 

It  ain't  no  use  t'  talk  t'  me 

Of  whut  some  other  feller  owns, 
I  ain't  got  no  grip  at  all, 

His  fire  don't  warm  my  achin'  bones, 
An'  then  I  'm  ust  t'  walkin'  where 

There  ain't  no  p'lice  'r  pavin'  stones — 
Of  course  you  '11  think  I  'm  mighty  sick 

But  1  'm  goin'  back  t'  morrer! 

Fact  is,  folks,  I  love  the  West ! 

They  ain't  no  other  place  like  home — 
They  ain't  no  other  place  t'  rest, 

F'r  mother  'n  me  but  jest  ol'  Rome, 
Cedar  County,  up  Basswood  Run — 

Lived  there  goin'  on  thirty  years — 
Come  there  spring  o'  sixty-one — 

An'  I  'm  goin'  back  t'  morrer ! 


ISO     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

I  tell  ye,  things  looked  purty  wild 

On  that  there  prairie  then  ! — 
We  hadn't  nary  chick  n'r  child, 

An'  we  buckled  down  to  work  like  men- 
Handsome  land  them  two  claims  was 

As  ever  lay  out  doors  !     Rich  an'  clean 
Of  brush  an'  sloos.    Y'r  Uncle  Daws 

He  used  t'  say  God  done  his  best 
On  that  there  land — His  level  best. 

No,  I  jest  can't  stand  it  here, 

Nohow — ain't  room  to  swing  my  cap. 
Ye're  all  cooped  up  in  this  ere  flat 

Jest  like  chickens  in  a  trap — 
I  'm  mighty  sorry,  Sue,  but  I 

Can't  stand  it,  an'  mother  can't 
If  she  was  willin'  wy  I  'd  try — 

But  1  guess  we  '11  go  t'  morrer. 

'N'  when  we  jest  get  home  agin, 

Back  t'  Cedar  County,  back  t'  Rome, 
Back  t'  Basswood  Run  an'  home, 

Won't  the  neighbors  jest  drop  in 
When  we  git  settled  down  an'  grin 

An'  all  shake  han's — an'  Deacon  White 
Drive  up  t'  laff  that  laff  o'  hisn — 

Mother,  let's  start  back  t'night ! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      151 


The  corn  is  jest  a-rampin'  now — 

I  c'n  hear  the  leaves  a-russlin' — 
As  they  twist  an'  swing  an'  bow — 

I  c'n  see  the  boys  a-husslin' 
In  the  medder  by  the  crick 

Forkin'  hay  f  r  all  in  sight — 
An'  the  birds  an'  bees  s'  thick  ! — 

O  we  must  start  back  t'  night ! 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     153 

ON  WING  OF  STEAM. 

Into  the  West 

Rain-brightened  and  fresh  as  if  new 
From  the  Kingdom  of  God. 
Through  the  wide  meadows,  dressed 
In  the  glory  of  sun-lighted  sod, 
Bright  with  the  green  of  the  grasses, 
As  the  heavens  are  bright  with  their  blue. 

Into  the  WestI 
I  laugh  as  we  cling 
On  the  green  ridges'  crest, 
1  exult  and  am  glad; 
1  swoop  and  I  swing 
Like  an  eagle  on  wing 
Of  the  wind — I  shout  and  am  mad 
With  a  wild  sweet  pain 
To  meet  the  plain. 

Into  the  West! 
Beneath  me  the  swells 
Slip  by  and  are  lost, 
As  the  foam-whitened  wave 
Under  keel  of  a  ship,  wells 
Like  a  fountain  one  instant,  and  tossed, 
As  with  plow,  hisses  white  into  spray, 
While  the  boat  sweeps  away. 


154     PRAIRIE   SONGS 

Into  the  West: 
The  miles  fall  behind  us; 
I  am  filled  with  wild  joy 
That  earth  can  not  bind  us. 
A  league  but  a  toy 
To  be  played  with  and  tossed 
To  the  winds.    I  am  part  of  the  pride 
And  the  glory  of  man, 
As  onward  we  sweep 
On  the  cloud-dappled  deep 
Of  the  mighty  green  sea, 
In  a  swift  and  most  marvelous  ride 
Into  the  West. 


PRAIRIES 


LOVE  my  prairies,  they  are 
mine 

From  zenith  to  horizon  line 
Clipping  a  world  of  sky  and  sod 
Like  the  bended  arm  and  wrist  of  God. 

I  love  their  grasses.    The  skies 
Are  larger,  and  my  restless  eyes 
Fasten  on  more  of  earth  and  air 
Than  sea-shores  furnish  anywhere. 

I  love  the  hazel  thickets  and  the  breeze, 
The  never-resting  prairie  winds;  the  trees 
That  stand  like  spear-points  high 
Against  the  dark  blue  sky, 
Are  wonderful  to  me.    I  love  the  gold 
Of  newly  shaven  stubble,  rolled 
A  royal  carpet,  toward  the  sun,  fit  to  be 
The  pathway  of  a  deity. 
155 


156     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

I  love  the  life  of  pasture  lands,  the  songs  of 

birds 

Are  not  more  thrilling  to  me,  than  the  herd's 
Mad  bellowing — or  the  shadow  stride 
Of  mounted  herdsmen  at  my  side. 

I  love  my  prairies,  they  are  mine, 
From  high  sun  to  horizon  line. 
The  mountains  and  the  cold  gray  sea 
Are  not  for  me,  are  naught  to  me. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      157 
MIDWAY  ON  THE  TRAIL. 

Fifty  thousand  miles  in  America! 
Fifty  thousand  miles  of  Mil  and  plain, 
Of  levels  by  the  sea,  of  wooded  land, 
Circling  loopings  of  a  restless  life. 

Midway  on  the  trail! 
Here  at  the  end  of  my  book,  I  rest, 
And  memories  throng  upon  me — 
Memories  wide  as  seas,  cool  as  streams, 
And  lofty  as  the  serrate  rim 
Of  mountain  chains.    Memories  of  fields 
And  pleasant  groves,  rushing  winds,  and  nights 
Of  moon-lit  splendid  September. — 
Imperishable  memories  of  mighty  days, 

Circling  before  me. 

O  those  days!    They  come  and  come 
Like  thronging  songs  both  sweet  and  sad. 
Days  on  the  Dakota  plain,  in  spring 
When  the  sod  is  green  and  velvet-smooth, 
Days  on  the  mountains  a!one  with  the  eagles. 
Days  on  the  Mississippi,  feeling  the  jar  and  throb 
Of  the  engine's  splendid  beam, 
Days  by  the  shining  Western  sea — 
O  splendor  and  power  of  days. 

All  America  is  there! 

Memories  of  the  Eastern  sea,  hearing  the  clang 
Of  the  lonely,  dolorous  bell-buoy's  tongue, 


158      PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Memories  of  New  England  meadow  lands, 
Memories  of  vineyards  in  Ohio,  close  beside — 
I  recall  orchards  in  Delaware  and  the  pink 
Of  peach-trees  on  the  slopes  of  Lookout  Moun- 
tain. 

Memories  of  sinuous  trails  that  braid 
The  breasts  of  mountains.    I  feel  again 
The  shivering  awe  with  which  1  faced 
The  Spanish  Peaks  across  the  level  land. 
Memories  of  orange  orchards  follow 
And  the  sunless  deeps  of  Alabamian  swamps, 
And  the  gleam  of  fire-flies  in  the  hot  still  night. 
Thronging  thick  and  orderless  as  dreams, 
Pictures  come,  looped  on  the  thread 
Of  shining,  winding  trails. 

I  see  once  more 

King  Shasta's  violet-and-silver  crown 
Set  high  against  the  winter  stars, 
Illimitable  as  pride  and  cold  as  death. 
St.  Helen's  rises,  a  glorious  moon 
Above  deep-purple  seas  of  trackless  woods, 
A  soaring  semi-circular  dome  of  rose-and-silve. 
Lit  by  the  flaming  sunset  light, 

Marvellously  beautiful. 

1  descend  again  the  mountain  trail 
Toward  a  moon-lit  mystery  of  land  and  sea 
Outspread  below — the  canon  water  calls — 
I  smell  the  lemon-blooms,  and  oranges 


PRAIRIE  SONGS     159 

Spilled  everywhere  beneath  the  trees. 

Wild  voices  echo  leaping  from  cliff  to  cliff. 

The  purple  landscape  darkens  swiftly,  and  lights 

below 
Glitter  to  stars  above. 

O  God!    How  beautiful! 

Memories  of  skies, 
Cloudless  cobalt  skies  of  level  lands, 
Where  only  sun  and  sand  are  seen — 
Radiant  skies  of  Arizonian  deserts. 
Californian  skies  of  winter — 
Gray  skies  where  the  eucalyptus  trees 
Toss  in  warm  unending  rain. 
Memories  of  skies  as  blue  as  wrinkled  seas 
At  mid-day,  when  the  winds  blow. 

Sunny  skies, 

Arching  some  silent  Mexican  town, 
Where  dark-skinned  children  play 
Untroubled  games  before  the  walls 

Of  crumbling  Spanish  missions. 

I  drift  on  Columbia's  cold  gray  water; 
1  see  the  fir-clothed  rimy  peaks  burst 
From  the  clouds,  three  thousand  feet 
Above  the  narrows,  where  the  river 
Churns  itself  to  foam  upon  the  lichen-spotted 

rocks. 

1  ride  through  terrible  forests,  in  gray 
Thick-falling  rain,  ride  and  ride, 


160     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Shadowed  by  clinging  gray-green  moss; 
Feeling  the  drip  of  wet,  wind-shaken  firs, 
Lost  in  wastes  of  giant  ferns, 
Where  the  wild  deer  feeds. 

The  sunrise  blooms  again 
On  the  glorious  Dakota  sod. 
1  plant  my  stake  on  untracked  land, 
Thrilled  with  the  wonder  and  marvel  of  it. 
I  hear  the  gabble  of  weary  geese  at  sunset, 
As  they  pass  close  to  earth,  hungry,  and  timid. 
I  hear  once  more  the  jovial  shout 
Of  jubilant  landseeker,  and  see 
The  cranes  dancing  in  shadowy  row 
Beside  the  shallow  pool. 
Over  me  the  stars  bloom  out, 
And  on  my  blanket  falls  the  frost 
Of  the  clear  midnight. 

O  the  irrevocable  past! 

Other  scenes  come  back. 
I  walk  behind  the  seeder  on  the  mellow  sod 
Of  lowan  prairies,  warm  with  sun. 
Around  and  over  me  goes  the  northward  flight 
Of  millions  of  water-fowl;  gophers  whistle; 
I  trace  the  awful  circle  of  the  calling  crane 
Circling  the  sun  in  his  flight.    I  hear 
The  chorus  of  the  prairie  chicken. 
I  toil  on  in  the  red  sunset. 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      161 

Harvest  days  follow. 
The  flaming  sun  rides  high 
Above  the  gently  moving  fields  of  wheat 
Stretching  to  the  sky's  dim  circling  rim. 
I  hear  the  purring  reaper's  far-off  threat. 
The  sheaf  crackles  again  under  my  knee, 
My  aching  muscles  roll  and  swell  and  strain; 
The  joy  of  physical  strength  fades  away. 
The  sun  declines,  the  dew  falls, 
The  level  rays  of  light  stream 
In  unspeakable  glory  over  the  wheat; 
The  crickets  call  in  rapid  repartee, 
The  darkness  sweeps  swiftly  from  the  east 
I  stumble  homeward,  while  the  horses  pass 
With  heads  wearily  down-hanging — 
The  sun  sets  on  harvest  daysl 

September  comes, 

And  with  it  a  roaring  wind,  hot  and  dry. 
A  magnetic,  splendid  southern  wind. 
Stacks  of  grain  arise  like  plants  of  sudden  growth 
The  corn  grows  sere  and  dry,  the  air 
Is  full  of  smell  of  ripening  grain,  the  moon 
Is  like  a  silver  boat  in  sapphire  seas. 
I  walk  behind  the  plow  on  still 
October  days  when  the  frost  melts  slowly 
From  the  shadowed  leaves. 
The  skies  grow  gray  with  snow 

And  winter  comes! 


162     PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Wild  winter  days  rush  over  me. 
I  see  the  woods  teams  slowly  pass, 
I  hear  the  low  sweet  jingle  of  the  bells, 
The  water  drops  from  southern  roofs, 
The  mid-day  sun,  dazzlingly  beautiful, 
Spills  blue  shadows  on  the  unstained  snow 
I  hear  the  shouts  of  skaters  in  the  swales, 
I  hear  the  shouts  of  axemen  in  the  pines, 
The  wolf  slips  by 
Swift  as  winter  days, 

In  deep  Wisconsin  woods. 

I  am  on  the  prairies  again; 
Seamless  domes  of  cloud 
Rise  in  the  West,  heavy  with  wind  and  snow. 
Once  again  the  swift  snow,  slides 
Fitfully,  menacingly,  and  the  Norther  comes, 
Bringing  sun-set  at  mid-day;  and  the  weight 
Of  all  winter  is  on  the  pitiless  blast. 
Blind  and  desperate  1  ride  and  ride! 
I  lie  beneath  a  shanty  roof  and  hear 
The  high-keyed,  frenzied,  piping,  persistent  howl 
Of  the  midnight  wind,  and  the  rushing  roar 
Of  the  streaming,  lashing  snows. 
There  is  no  earth,  no  sky, 
Nothing  but  snow. 

Snow! 

1  saw  it  rest  on  sheltering  arms  of  fir, 
I  saw  it  lay  old  and  sullen,  in  mountain  pass 


PRAIRIE  SONGS      163 

Ten  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.    I  saw 
It  saffron  with  the  wind-blown  sands 
On  old  Mount  Ouray,  where  the  wind 
Had  died  at  last  of  cold  and  weariness. 
Across  a  waste  of  lesser  hills 
The  College  Group  soars,  a  wall 
Of  silver  based  in  purple. 

Snow! 

I  ride  behind  a  swift  young  horse 
Beneath  broad  lowan  oaks;  the  bells 
Make  the  clear  night  musical,  the  sky, 
Low-hung,  splendid,  is  frosty  with  stars, 
And  the  moon  sails  on  in  silence; 
Her  wake  of  light  lies  on  the  crusted  snows, 
But  she  sails  on  and  on  beyond  the  skies, 
Beyond  the  land  of  youth  and  love, 
:nto  the  land  of  mystery 
Beyond  the  fartherest  West. 

O  glorious  days! 
I  cannot  lose  you.    1  will  not. 
Here  in  the  current  of  my  song, 
Here  I  sweep  you  all  together, 
The  harvest  of  a  continent,  the  fruit 
Of  a  thousand  days  of  travel. 
Here  where  neither  time  nor  change 
Can  rob  me  of  you.    So 
When  I  am  old,  like  a  chained  eagle 
I  can  sit  and  dream  and  dream 


164      PRAIRIE  SONGS 

Of  splendid  spaces  and  the  gleam 
Of  rivers,  and  the  smell 
Of  prairie  flowers. 

So  I  can  live  again 
Above  the  clouds,  and  on 
The  reeling  horse,  hear  the  wind 
Roaring  from  dark  and  wooded  canons. 
So,  when  I  have  quite  forgot 
The  heritage  of  books 
I  still  shall  know 
The  splendor  and  majesty 

Of  my  native  land. 


HERE  ENDETH  THE  BOOK  NAMED  PRAIRIE  SONGS 
. ' .  PRINTED  BY  JOHN  WILSON  &  SON  .  •  .  AT  THE 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS  .'.IN  CAMBRIDGE  .'.  FOR 
STONE  &  KIMBALL  .'.  THE  YEAR  OF  OUR  LORD 
MDCCCXCm 


Wind  on  the  Wheat 

You  ask  me  for  the  sweetest  sound 

mine  ears  have  ever  heard? 
sweeter  than  the  ripples'  plash,  or 

trilling  of  a  bird, 
Than  tapping  of  the  rain-drops  upon 

the  roof  at  night, 
Than  the  sighing  of  the  pine-trees  on 

yonder   mountain   height/ 
And  I  tell  you,  these  are  tender,  ye 

never  quite  so  sweet 
As  the  murmur  and  the  cadence  o 

the  wind  across  the  wheat. 

—MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER,  in  "On  th 
Road  -Homev" 


(THE  BURROWS  BROTHERS 

COMPANY, 
CLEVELAND,  OHIO. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000271715    5 


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